


Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the broken Doctor

by Strange_johnlock



Series: Broken and Loved [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom John Watson, Bottoming from the Top, Character Development, Conversations, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Grief, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, John Watson is a Good Parent, John tries to deal with everything on his own (Has the man not learned anything??), M/M, Making Love, Miscommunication, New Relationship, Oral Sex, Parentlock, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Sex Toys, Sexuality Crisis, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Slow Burn, Smut, Talking, Therapy, They Really Are Idiots, Top Sherlock, Topping from the Bottom, no case, sexual identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-07-19 12:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 39,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: "This is a sexual identity crisis, even though it has nothing to do with Sherlock being a man. This is a sexual identity crisis, because John is afraid he might never be able to be with Sherlock in the capacity they want to be. John is broken, he has known that for a while, but in bed he has always been sure of himself, even in his darkest years. And now that it matters most, this confidence crumbles, shatters, is ground to dust."For John and Sherlock, being in love does not solve all their problems. They still have a past to deal with, a child to raise, and a heart to heal.Now finished





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Season 4 Fix-its seem to be my thing :)
> 
> As Always, English is not my native language, so please bear with me (if you find any typos we might have missed, please point them out, so I can improve the Story)
> 
> Thank you to Amelia and Kim, my wonderful beta readers <3

**I.**

Sherlock looks gorgeous in the flickering light of the fireplace, and John takes another gulp of his wine before setting his plate on the floor and getting up.

They have just finished a lovely dinner courtesy of Angelo’s, balancing the plates on their laps. Lasagne for Sherlock and chicken caprese for John, and the doctor feels that on a night like this, with Rosie fast asleep in her cot and gentle rain tapping against the windows, what could go wrong?

Taking two careful steps, John crosses the space between their armchairs and leans over the detective, whose lips have an almost magnetic pull now that he has tasted them once, twice, three times over the past few days. And Sherlock is looking up at him, the smile almost shy, his eyes so open, vulnerable, John wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Most of all, he needs to kiss this man, or he might go mad. He knows he is torturing both of them by taking it slow, but then there is no need to rush. They have all the time in the world, now. 

Placing a careful hand on Sherlock’s cheek, he brushes his lips against the detective’s forehead. “Can you believe this?” He whispers, breath grazing over Sherlock’s brow. “That we finally got here?”

“If you eliminate the impossible.” Sherlock grins and reaches out to cup the side of John’s neck.

“Are you implying that this…” He indicates the both of them, and all of 221B in a hand gesture, “Is the only possible way things could have turned out?” And he can barely wait for Sherlock’s answer with the need to taste him.

“That would make me a believer in faith, John.” He is being pulled further down, and John doesn’t have the strength, or the will, to discuss their life philosophies right now, when they are finally here.

Since their first kiss, a tender press of lips that lasted mere seconds, that had in its seeming diminutiveness broken down walls which had been built up over several years, there had been no time to take things further, to spend time on their own. So, tonight is the night, their night, and John feels nervous and excited and has so much love for this man in front of him.

Their lips fit perfectly against each other, just resting there for a moment, and John is holding his breath. “John.” Sherlock whispers, and never has so common a name been said with more emotion, John is sure. He kisses and kisses and kisses him, their fingers tangled in the other’s hair, pulling closer and pushing away briefly just so they breathe for a second, before they meet again. John is almost on Sherlock’s lap, his feet barely touching the carpet, and Sherlock has both his arms and legs wrapped around him. John feels a pang of guilt, convinced that Sherlock is still afraid that he might leave. John will prove him wrong, tonight.

What seemed like a good idea in his head, turns out to be less elegant, or easy, but John still manages to pull Sherlock up, hands on his upper thighs, and carry him to the bedroom. There are giggles, and sipping kisses, and Sherlock’s back collides with the wall more than once, which makes them giggle more. From their first evening together, this shared laughter has bonded them together, and all nervousness is now gone. John can be open, show Sherlock how much he loves and wants him.

They manage to get out of their clothes before John presses Sherlock into the mattress. He is so beautiful that John can barely find words for it. Miles of pale, soft, marvellous skin almost silver in the dark room. With his flatmate’s lack of modesty, John has seen almost all of him before, the sheet not leaving much room for imagination. It is no wonder, then, that John’s eyes are pulled down to the lean, long cock nestled against Sherlock’s belly. He leans forward to mouth at his lover’s jaw and neck.

“Tell me where I can touch you.” He whispers, and Sherlock shudders at his words, lids falling shut for a moment, before pale eyes look down at him. “Everywhere, John, please. I want… everything.”

They are kissing; hungry, open mouthed kisses, and John’s intent to hold back, to take things slow, dissolves when Sherlock bites at his lips and rolls his hips, pressing their cocks together in between their bodies. “Fuck.” He curses, his fingers pulling at dark curls. “Tell me if I do anything you don’t like, yeah?” He manages to breathe against Sherlock’s ear, before he starts to mouth at every centimetre of marble skin, until he has the detective writhing on the sheets, bucking up against him.

“John.” Sherlock moans, and John is amazed with how open his lover is, not hiding a single emotion as he looks at the doctor. “No more hiding,” John thinks “for either of us.”

“John, I want… I want everything.” And John understands. Traveling up the detective’s body, he kisses the sweet mouth waiting for him, stealing the words that have just left those lips.

Everything.

“It might hurt.” He warns, hands pushing curls from Sherlock’s sweaty forehead, as he holds himself up on both elbows.

“I don’t care.”

“You really should.”

“I trust you.” Sherlock smiles, rubbing their noses together, and there it is again, the feeling of wanting to cry with joy. John rests his brow against Sherlock’s. “Okay, we’ll try, and see how we like it, yeah?” He feels Sherlock nod, as his large hands skim down John’s back, grabbing his buttocks and pulling them flush against each other.

There is a moment where they reorganize themselves, scooting more towards the middle of the bed, as Sherlock retrieves the lube and a condom from his nightstand before John kneels between Sherlock’s thighs.

“Ready?”

“Hurry up.” John grins, swatting at Sherlock’ bum, before he leans down to lick at the lovely cock nestled against dark curls. For a while, Sherlock is all John can focus on, as he stretches him open, while distracting him with his mouth. He has never done this to a man before, but he knows what he likes, when it comes to blowjobs, and he is a doctor, so preparing the ring muscle doesn’t scare him. The way Sherlock moves against him, and moans his name, he seems to be doing something right.

John only stops when Sherlock is begging him, begging to be fucked, and John needs to kiss his posh, dirty man, needs to taste his lips and press him into the mattress. He pulls on a condom to avoid the mess, and god, how much he adores this man. There is nothing he wants more than to bury himself deep inside him, and make him feel so loved, so cherished. John has always been a careful but thorough lover, and a firm believer that lust has to be shared, not just claimed for himself. For Sherlock Holmes, he wants this to be perfect. They have both held back for so long, and John’s heart is pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing between his legs. Still, he needs a clear head, needs to take care of Sherlock first. “It might feel a lot, in the beginning, love. You’ll tell me, if it is too much, promise?” Only, when the detective nods, does John slowly push in, only the head, at first.

Warm, tight heat surrounds him, and John drops his head against Sherlock’s chest. It’s been so long since he felt himself press into another body, and Sherlock moans, pushes against him.

In a second, everything changes. John’s hands start to shake, and he feels he cannot breathe. Suddenly, being surrounded by Sherlock makes him feel trapped. He has gone from being desperately aroused, longing for his lover, to feeling like someone has pushed him into cold water, and he is drowning, scrambling to keep afloat.

“I’m sorry.” He gasps. “I can’t. I can’t.”

He pulls out, getting as far away from Sherlock on the bed as he can. John does not understand why his body is reacting like this, why he is suddenly overwhelmed. Hands over his eyes, the doctor bites down on his lips so hard it hurts, breaking skin. There’s not enough air filling his lungs. Hyperventilation, he knows, a knowledge that is useless, because he can’t bring himself to follow the advice he would have given anybody else.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, small. “John, can I touch you?”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, 00:05 am is technically thursday, isn't it? :)

**II.**

John has seen Sherlock in pain, both physical and emotional, has seen him struggle to solve a puzzle, grasp the final straw to save both their lives. Never before has the detective sounded so unsure, and it breaks John’s heart. 

He manages a nod, and a moment later, he is surrounded by strong arms that give him the feeling of protection and security he had searched for in whiskey when Mary died. They ground him, and John allows the tears to fall, his gasps of air slowly changing into calmer, steadier breaths.

For a while, neither of them says a word, and then John turns to press his face against Sherlock’s chest, where tears and snot become indistinguishable from Sherlock’s sweat. Neither of them cares, as they cling to each other. 

“John, can you tell me what is wrong?” Sherlock holds him tighter, lips moving against the top of his lover’s head. John’s voice is hoarse, and he struggles to speak. “I don’t think I can… can find the words.” He whispers, reaching out to rest his hand on the detective’s shoulders

“Can I deduce? You can tell me if I’m wrong, or if you want me to just shut up.” And John laughs, a dry, joyless laugh. “Yeah, yes, that would be... that would be good.” He hears Sherlock take a deep breath, before the detective starts talking.

“At first, I thought, this might be a sexual identity crisis, the very male body that was presented to you that made you falter. But then, you have very enthusiastically, may I say, fellated me, and did not hesitate for a second. So, I discarded the theory, and have come to another conclusion.”

Somehow, being deduced in those almost clinical voice, calms John further, and he closes his eyes, taking in the scent of the man he loves, as long fingers draw circles on his back.

“This panic attack was caused by guilt, John, and grief. Because of Mary, your wife, she was the last person you made love to. Trying to penetrate me reminded you of her, of being with her... you lost her so violently, it is still hard to take.” Sherlock’s voice shudders at that, and he clears his throat two times, before continuing.

“You have always been dominant, sexually, prided yourself on taking care of your partners. I suspect, and it is only a guess, this time, that your relationship with Mary was, especially in the beginning, a very sexually active one. You were the penetrating partner in what is the most important relationship in your life, both emotionally and sexually.”

John wants to interrupt, wants to say that Sherlock has always been the most important person in his life, no matter how much he wished that he could love Mary as much as he loves this man. He keeps still though, not wanting to focus on a detail like this. if he really thinks about it though, Sherlock is right. Every word makes so much sense and fits in perfectly with the chaos in John’s head.

“I knew I felt attracted to you, even before I lost you.” John is surprised to hear himself speak. “And I felt guilty about it, when you came back. It wasn’t fair to her, because I knew, if you asked, I would have chosen you without hesitation. It was so unfair to her. I loved Mary, I did, but you…” John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s chest, tender and apologetic. “I always wanted to make her feel loved, desired, and I felt guilty, I…”

The fingers on his back have stopped, and for a moment, the room was completely quiet.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…Tonight should have been perfect, for us. I should have been able to…”

“Don’t apologize, John. We will have our time together. And I don’t care about the capacity in which we will be together.”

John wants to laugh at that, because how can Sherlock really mean that. How can he love a man that is not able to provide what he needs, who cannot do what a real man should be able to do because of his dead wife? John feels pathetic for it, and his hands ball into fists.

“You want this, you said…”he whispered, unable to give words to how he really feels about himself. Like a true Watson, he thinks, he will let it fester inside him for the next few months, maybe even years. Ella would be disappointed in him, John knows.

“I have lived almost forty years without anal sex, John. I will manage.” Him using humour, in a moment like this, makes John realise that Sherlock is as unsure, as confused as he is, and the anger at himself flares up in John’s chest. He wants to get up and run, walk the streets of London until his feet hurt.

The expression of hurt on Sherlock’s face, when John pulls away and steps out of bed, almost breaks his heart. How he has disappointed this man, not only tonight. “I need…” John pulls his jeans up, finds his jumper on the threshold to the bedroom.

“I understand.” Sherlock’s words are clear, hiding emotion, as the detective sits up, wrapping his arms around his legs. “Come home safely.” Not wanting to be cruel, John steps towards him to press a kiss to raven curls. “I will.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys like the story so far?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John talks to two important women in his life

**III.**

The London night is cool, and John wishes he had taken his coat, as he wanders aimlessly. He can feel his leg tremble, and he almost wishes he could have the limp back if it meant he wasn’t a broken man in this sexual aspect. It was almost funny, that Sherlock had been right, where he had thought himself wrong.

This is a sexual identity crisis, even though it had nothing to do with Sherlock being a man. This is a sexual identity crisis, because John is afraid he might never be able to be with Sherlock in the capacity they want to be. John is broken, he has known that for a while, but in bed he has always been sure of himself, even in his darkest years. And now when it matters most, this confidence crumbles, shatters, is ground to dust. How can he ever attempt this again, when he has just failed so spectacularly?

Those thoughts hunt him through the streets of the city that never sleeps, and John just barely resists to give in to the Watson curse and buying himself a bottle of whiskey to cope. He has a daughter to think of, a partner, and he promised to be safe.

The sun is almost up, when he climbs the steps up to the flat.

He finds Sherlock in bed, Rosie snuggled against his side, and John knows he has done this on purpose, so John can come into their bed without having expectations hanging over his head. John is grateful. For a while, he watches them sleep. They look so peaceful, Rosie’s mouth hanging open, her tiny hand grabbing at Sherlock’s pyjama shirt at the hem of the sleeve.

And his dark thoughts don’t matter anymore, because he has these two people in his life, his beautiful daughter and the impossible Sherlock Holmes, and they are all the reason he needs to want to better himself, to work on this and get back on track.

Carefully, he switches off the light in the hallway and climbs under the duvet behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the detective’s middle.

* * *

It is not as easy as he thinks, of course, life rarely is.

When they try again, snogging on the sofa, until Sherlock pulls him to bed, John tries to force himself. It goes terribly wrong, John’s arousal flagging, making any attempt at penetration impossible. It is Sherlock, who saves the situation, with teasing, tender touches and wet, open mouthed kisses, and when their cocks touch between their bodies, John allows himself to be pulled into an orgasm by capable hands. For their first time, John thinks, it's brilliant. He lets John hold him, afterwards, until they both fall asleep.

Over the next few weeks, they find time together again, but John doesn’t dare to go further than oral sex, and, one wonderful afternoon when Rosie is napping, petting on the sofa, both of them coming into their pants like teenagers. It is good, John thinks, that they are now taking their time to explore each other, get to know their bodies, but John wonders if he will ever not feel guilty, or as if he is cheating on his dead wife, when it comes to penetrative sex. He doesn’t want to feel like that, he knows it’s irrational to even subconsciously connect the feeling of Sherlock around him to what it used to be when he shared a bed with Mary. He can’t help that he does, or that he doubts his capability as a lover, as a man, for Sherlock.

So, even though he feels embarrassed, he brings it up with Ella, when they meet for one of their biweekly meetings.

“I can’t provide my partner with penetrative sex.” He blurts out a few minutes before their hour together ends, and his therapist raises an eyebrow. She is used to having to fight for every bit of information.

“I wasn’t aware you were dating again, John. That’s wonderful!” She smiles professionally, before scribbling something down in his notes. She has learned to hide them away, which drives John crazy. Trust issues, still, after all this time.

“Thank you. I… I’m very happy, we both are. I just… I can’t…” He looks at his hand, enough of a British man to be uncomfortable with sharing his feelings.

“I assume you have tried penetration already?” Ella doesn’t even blush, so John does instead, before clearing his throat and sharing his experience with Sherlock and the deductions the detective has made.

“I think that in my messed-up head, it feels like cheating on her. Which I did, before she died. I … texted another woman, when Rosie was still a tiny baby. Maybe, I thought I had the right to, after all her lies. Doesn’t matter now. She’s dead. My wife, she died over a year ago and I still feel guilty.”

“You are finding words for your feelings. Do you realise that this is a major progress, John?” Ella crosses her legs to rest her note pat on her thighs. “You are identifying why you are reacting the way you are by yourself.”

“Doesn’t change the fucking situation, does it?” John spits out. “Because I can’t give my partner what he needs out of some stupid grief and guilt and whatever.”

“Your partner is male, then?”

“Does it matter?”

“Again John, I’m the one asking questions.” Ella smiles. They have been at this point so many times before.

“Yes, he is. Which I don’t have a problem with. I’m not gay. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been with men in my younger years. I experimented a bit. Never got problems with getting it up.” He knows he’s being rude in his frustration. Wouldn’t therapy be much easier if Ella just told him what to do instead of asking stupid questions?

“Would it be so bad, to be called gay?”

There we go again. John huffed, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, until he can school his features into something less annoyed.

“It has been assumed, before, that I am. Especially with Sherlock. Wouldn’t be bad, in general, but it’s not true. I like women, I prefer women, actually. Some men do it for me. So, I’m not gay, I’m bisexual. But that has nothing to do with my problem. This is about Mary, and her death, somehow, not my sexuality.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, John. Us humans, we are rarely that easy to grasp. I would like to talk to you about this in detail next time.” She closes her notepad and he notices that it is already three minutes past four. As much as he knows this is necessary, he always feels worse, more confused, after sessions with Ella.

He says his goodbyes and decides to walk home, to get his mind cleared a little so he can be in a better mood for Rosie. She deserves his full attention, and not a father who is distracted with himself and thinks he fucked up.

When he opens the front door Mrs. Hudson greets him in the foyer. “Oh, hello dear. Sherlock and the little one went out to the park a while ago.”

“Oh.” John feels a pang of disappointment. He had looked forward to being with his loves, to spend some time wrapped up in the comfort they provide.

“Rosie said she’d bring some ice cream for us, too. Why don’t you come and sit down? I just put the kettle on.”

John has not heard of a man brave enough to tell Mrs. Hudson no when it comes to offered tea, so he sits down in her cosy kitchen as she tells him all about Mrs. Turner and her grandson, who is a successful tennis player.

“A dashing boy. And quite the gentleman.” She gushes. “Reminds me of my late husband thirty years ago. He could charm people into doing anything he wanted. Made him quite successful in his business.”

Their landlady steps forward to pet his cheek. “Those were good years, weren’t they, the years of marriage? And the worst, too.”

Huffing, John leans back to escape her touch. He is not in the mood for her games. “You’re a clever woman, Mrs. H. No need to pretend. What wise words do you have prepared for me?”

Her smile is genuine, and a little proud. “I talked to Sherlock. Well, he provides information, if asked the right questions. And I needed to ask. He had those sad puppy eyes.” She looks up, remembering and John takes a large sip of his tea. Here we go, the thinks.

“Anyway, I know what you’re going through, dear.” She places a plate of biscuits in front of him, as if those could help in any way.

John is almost relieved when he hears the front door and Rosie’s babbling.

“Just one piece of advice, dear.” She says, as he walks to the door.

“Why don’t you and Sherlock try something that is completely different from the intimacy you shared with Mary? Oh, don’t look so scandalised. I was an exotic dancer, dear boy. I’ve had sex before.”

He is spared an answer, by Rosie running towards him and hugging his legs. The thought, though, is stuck in his mind.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Story will be longer than I thought… hope you don't mind :D
> 
> Please give me some Feedback via comments on what you think of this Story so far <3


	4. *explicit*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smut alert*  
> Chapter 4 is a short one, so you're getting it early :)  
> Have a lovely sunday, you gorgeous people <3

**IV.**

Letting Sherlock top. He doesn’t know if that is even what Mrs. Hudson meant, but it is what his brain has come up with. At first, the thought had been a little daunting. He knows how prostates work, and that stimulating them can be very pleasurable, but having a penis inserted into one’s body is something completely different.

He can’t just suggest that to Sherlock when he is unsure if he even wants that. Sherlock is a tender, thorough, and curious lover, and John knew he would give everything to make him feel good. It’s not that he doesn’t want Sherlock to fuck him, it’s just that sex has never involved John’s anus. There is, however, one way he can find out whether he would like that.

The first time he tries it is in the shower. He’s the only one awake at about five in the morning due to military habit, enjoying the moment of silence. When he closes his hands around his semi hard cock, John lets his head rest back against the wall as he teases himself with slow, light strokes. Biting his lip, he continues, closing his eyes.

Sherlock, hair ruffled in a wonderful bedhead, the sheet barely covering what seems to be miles of pale skin, cock nestled against a patch of dark curls. “John.” He’s smiling that beautiful, rare smile John loves so much.

The doctor moans at the image, holding himself tighter. The things this man does to him, with his eyes and voice and that gorgeous body. For years, he has done this in secret, touched himself thinking of the detective. Their time in Buckingham Palace had provided him with enough of an idea how Sherlock looked under all that posh clothing, and John had just enough imagination to take things further. That’s not necessary anymore. He knows every part of Sherlock, has kissed every mole and scar.

John licks his lips, almost expecting to taste Sherlock, but instead finding his own sweat and drops of water. The tiles are cool against his upper back and neck, a welcomed sensation. He is fucking his fist in earnest by now, mind flooded with images of his partner in their bed, on his knees.

The fingers of his right hand travel past his scrotum, along his perineum. John adjusts his stance, so he can reach further down. Pressure, onto the muscle, careful at first. This, touching that part of himself, has never been a part of his routine before, but he can’t say he dislikes it. It doesn’t really do anything for him either, though, and he tries circling movements, teasing himself, rubbing at his perineum, before returning to that special spot. Circling, rubbing, pressing just the tip of his index finger inside. It’s not really a stretch, nor will he be able to reach his prostate from this position. When he did this to Sherlock, his partner had moaned his name and moved against his fingers, very apparently turned on by the touch and the press of fingers inside. Maybe, John thinks, some people are just more sensitive and John is not. This is okay, the sensation new, unfamiliar, but not too unpleasant. It’s just nothing earth shatteringly wonderful. There are no sparks flying. It’s a pity, that, because John was so convinced having Sherlock top would be the solution for all their problems, but how can they do that when John is apparently not very sensitive anally?

John brings himself to orgasm, finger pressed inside himself, but the initial excitement has died down. He thought he could do it, could discover this new part of his sexuality and find a new erogenous zone. But nothing. He just felt nothing.

“Why can’t things be easy for once.” He mutters to himself, as he steps out of the shower. He can’t provide penetration to Sherlock due to some weird guilt, and his body doesn’t seem to be interested in being penetrated either. John dries himself off and shaves before he wraps himself in a dressing gown and steps into the bedroom.

Sherlock looks beautiful in his sleep, younger than John ever imagined, and his heart aches for this man. He is a lucky bastard, to be here now, to have Sherlock in his bed, in his life, to know that he is loved by this loving, kind, clever, mad genius, and he is not going to give up on their sex life, John decides in that second. Crawling back under the duvet, John grabs his phone. It’s time for research.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John does some shopping ;) and therapy

**V.**

John is not a man to give up easily, not when he has Sherlock to fight for. He’s killed for this man, has fought psychopathic geniuses and sisters.

This is nothing compared to murdering cabbies and blackmail Napoleons. He is not being poisoned, or sedated, nearly burned or drowned. It’s just a little crisis in the bedroom, and even though John has never had to deal with something like this, he is sure he can figure it out.

There are enough helpful websites for him to scour through, and he has the whole night to do so, as sleep seems to be not an option.

There are general articles on masturbation and stimulating the prostate in general. As a doctor, he is more focused on scientific papers, but he needs to put individual experiences into account as well. Medics might tell him what the human body is capable in general, but he also knows he needs to hear from someone he might relate to. By the end of the night, there are a few things that John has written down.

\- No pressure

\- Try to make it comfortable (bath, candles etc.)

\- Find toys for prostate stimulation

It’s not world changing research. He could have figured that out within minutes, but he feels quite comforted by the words. Also, he has found some recommendations on said toys, which is why he clicks though some websites and orders a wireless [prostate stimulator](https://mrracy.com/review-lelo-hugo-remote-prostate-anal/), which he has settled on because it was recommended to beginners and he likes the thought of both having his hands free, the satin texture and the many possible intensities of the vibration. He can start slow and work his way up, if he wants to. Also, it doesn’t seem to be too much of a stretch and has an extension that massages the perineum. The dude recommending it had been going on about the different vibration patterns.

John is a little turned on, especially because he has never really read up on this. As a man who mostly dated women, his prostate has never been something he cared about, and now he catches himself regretting that.

“What a fun way to get over a trauma.” John thinks, and places his phone on the nightstand, wrapping an arm around his sleeping detective. “I’ll make it up to you.” He whispers into dark curls.

* * *

“You know, I knew our marriage wouldn’t last long. We loved each other, I’m sure she loved me, too, but there had been too much going on, too many lies. I knew she’d leave me sooner or later.”

“Why would she be the one to leave?” Ella always focused on those small things, and John rubs his palms over his tired eyes.

“I’m not the person to change things, never have been. I just wait and see what happens, let things happen to me. When I got shot, I let them place me back in London. And I didn’t leave, because it’s what I knew. I felt attracted to some men, but I mostly dated women, because it’s easier, even in the twenty-first century. I never approached Sherlock about my feelings for him, because it was easier to just be his friend than to possibly be rejected. And I cheated on my wife, well, texted a girl, because it would give her a reason to leave me, so I wouldn’t have to. See, I’m not a brave man. Never have been. But she was brave, and independent, and beautiful, and she would have realised soon enough that being with me wouldn’t make her happy.”

Ella looks up at him.

“That’s not even what I wanted to talk about. I guess we deserved each other in some way. Because she was also a lying, manipulative bitch, and being with her did nothing for my self-confidence. But I married her, and we were happy for a while, and when I lost her…” John looks anywhere but at Ella, his hands in fists at his side on the chair. He feels the need to walk, to pace, but forces himself to sit, and talk instead.

“When I lost her, for a while, I thought she might just come back. She died in my bloody arms, literally, and I thought she just might walk in some day. It’s stupid, because I felt her heart stop, but then, I touched Sherlock and he had no pulse, and he still came back. Sometimes…” He takes a deep breath, because this is hard to admit, even to himself. “Sometimes, when Rosie cried, at night, I thought about just letting her cry. I thought, maybe Mary would come out of hiding, to help her daughter, because she surely wouldn’t come for me. I thought, if Rosie suffered, her mother couldn’t stay away.”

He breaks into tears. Sherlock has been the only person to see him cry, and John half expects those long arms to wrap around him, to be pulled against a strong chest. This sense of being protected is what he craves, at this moment.

John hides his face behind his hand, not willing to let her see what Sherlock saw. It’s theirs, theirs alone. “I didn’t, of course. I never let her… let her cry through the night. But I did hand her off, to anyone who offered to take her for a few hours. I couldn’t do it without her, raise our daughter.”

“Couldn’t?”

Oh, clever woman, John thinks and takes the offered tissue, dabbing at his eyes. A flood of memories. Sherlock and Rosie in the kitchen at 221B, both focused on some of the experiments from the chemistry set for kids Sherlock has found online, the little one all serious with her goggles and too big gloves. Sherlock picking up Rosie so she can reach John’s secret biscuit jar. The two of them napping on the sofa, or on the floor in between wooden blocks. Sherlock proudly pacing the flat with the purple butterfly clips Rosie has put in his hair. Sherlock playing the violin, when Rosie had a flu, until she fell asleep. John bites his lip, to hide a smile.

“Yeah, with him, with him I think I can do it now, be a father and raise her. She’s happy, I think. Giggles a lot, especially when he’s there.”

John wonders, briefly, why he still can’t seem to be honest about his partner’s name, when it comes to Ella. Maybe because for a while he talked to her regarding their friendship, and he doesn’t want her to know they are more now even after all this time. Maybe she suspects, because there has never been anyone more important than Sherlock Holmes in his life. She doesn’t say anything, though, and neither does he.

“Is your partner comfortable with that role in your daughter’s life?”

“I think he is. He’s her godfather anyways, and now that we’re living together, he's been taking on more responsibility. He picks her up from the nursery, when I’m working late. They love going to the park together, too. It’s good, the way it is now.”

“There is a difference between being a godfather and raising her, though.” It still sounds like a question to John, and he doesn’t know what to say for a while.

“We’re just letting things find their way I guess. See how it goes, and take it from there. There wasn’t a big ‘Hey, let’s move in together.’. Just happened. And now, he’s more than her godfather, just because we spend so much time together, the three of us.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice, John? Because you have been talking very openly about your wife, and your current relationship, and most importantly about yourself, which you have never done before.” She smiles her professional, but somehow proud smile.

“I want to fix things, fix me, for him. He deserves that. He deserves more than that broken version of me that currently lives with him.”

“And isn’t that brave, John, to want to better yourself, even though it’s so very difficult to admit when we are wrong?”

John looks up at the ceiling, and the smile on his face isn’t a happy or humoured one. He has never been good at accepting compliments, and he will probably never be.

“My piece of advice, John, is that you talk to him, as openly as you talk to me, here. Find a word for what he is to your daughter, define his role in her life. If this is a serious relationship, which I think it is for you, you always have to consider Rosie too. And only if you are sure in that aspect, sure about what both of you want for your present, and your future, can you be sure about the two of you as a couple, both emotionally and sexually. Talk to him, John. Be brave.”

Swallowing down a lump in his throat, John looks at her directly, for the first time since they said their hellos. “We’re not good at that,” he admits. “Talking. We’re better at just doing. We don’t need words for that.”

“Have you tried?”

Sherlock had kissed him. They had just moved the last of their stuff into Baker Street, divided the room upstairs with a screen, so he and Rosie could share it. And then, there was no screen needed anymore, because Sherlock had cupped John’s face in his hands and looked at him, just looked, for a while. When their lips met, the detective’s eyes were still open, as if he had to make sure this wasn’t a dream. And John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close, whispered to him to close his eyes and just feel, as their closed mouths met again and again. There had been no need for words, after that. They both knew that their relationship had just changed, had progressed into more than friendship, a surprise to neither of them.

“We didn’t have a ‘do you wanna date’ talk or something. It just felt natural, to be together, to add those physical aspects to our relationship. He’s a cuddler, which I never expected. But no, we didn’t talk about being boyfriends.”

“Talk, John. It can be the basis and help you with everything else.”

John gets up, taking his jacket. “That sounds so simple.”

“It is so simple.” She smiles and offers her hand for him to shake. “It’s just hard to find the right words, sometimes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story got longer than i expected. 24 chapters instead of 14. Hope you don't mind 😝


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

Sherlock is waiting by the window. John heard the violin when he turned onto Baker Street, but when he walks up the stairs, the last notes fade into silence. He hangs his jacket on one of the hooks at the front door and turns to the detective. God, he’s beautiful. The sunlight is falling through the glass and painting Sherlock’s skin golden. And John really wants to take Ella’s advice and talk, be open and share how he feels, but the magnetic pull of Sherlock’s lips is too strong. Mouths meet, before the hellos have fully been spoken. He’s so beautiful, and John wraps his arms around him, lets one kiss turn to two, three, four, until he loses count. He’s so in love with this man, it almost hurts.

“Sherlock,” he moans against cupid bow lips. “God, love.” He’s being pushed back, until he feels the edge of the desk against his lower back, Sherlock towering over him.

“Rosie’s napping.” Sherlock whispers, and only then does John notice the baby phone on the living room table, Rosie’s soft snores barely audible. “We could … seize the moment.”

John snorted a giggle. “That’s what we call it these days, is it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but pulls Sherlock down for another kiss. His fingers catch in the fabric of the sand-coloured dressing gown to shrug it off the detective’s shoulders. All the while, Sherlock is busy with John’s button-down shirt, a task which he is more adept at than John himself could ever be. He did have enough practice, after all, with those tiny little buttons of his.

His eyes falling shut, John takes a deep breath as a warm, wet mouth descends onto the tender skin of his neck and up to his jaw.

“Sherlock…,” John hears himself moan. “Love, I need to… Oh…” And he’s tried, hasn’t he? to stop for a minute and talk before they get on with this, but Sherlock has pulled down his jeans and pants, his large fingers closing around John’s cock.

“Later, John.” A voice like liquid gold, sending sparks down his spine; setting his whole body on fire. “Tell me later.”

How could he not obey, resist when Sherlock is being so bloody sexy? Dropping to his knees, that beautiful skilled mouth so close to where John wants it to be. Sherlock pushes up the fabric of his shirt so he has access to John’s belly, and John wants to beg him to please, please take him into his mouth and suck him, to push further back and just breach him with the tip of his finger. Instead, he bites his lips and keeps quiet.

He doesn’t want to disappoint his partner again, to ask to be touched that way, if he isn’t even sure he’ll like it. No, first he will need to figure this out for himself. Just a little more patience.

“Sherlock,” John weaves his fingers into dark curls. “Sherlock, please…” He begs, not leaving any doubt as to what he wants. Sherlock doesn’t disappoint, tongue licking a long stripe from base to tip, and Jesus, John is so hard for him.

“God, you brilliant man.” John lets his head drop to his chest, so he can see that delicious mouth, those silvergreenblue eyes gleaming up at him, the spark of brilliance and lust in them. Lovely, so wonderfully lovely. He can barely take it.

The whimper surprises them both, pulls both of them out of their haze.

Within moments, whimpers turn into wails and John curses. “God damn, just ten more minutes.” He says in direction of his daughter, as he pulls his trousers up over his flagging erection.

“Five, more likely.” Sherlock smirks, but he looks as disappointed as John feels.

“Nah,” John shakes his head, already on his way up the stairs. “I would have… reciprocated, love.”

Laughing at Sherlock’s sulky huff of frustration, he walks up to get his daughter. Maybe this wasn’t meant to be. Maybe he should just take Ella’s advice and talk first.

* * *

There was no time to get back to what they had started though, because Greg Lestrade called. A whole family, eleven people, had been poisoned in their home at a yearly family meeting, and Sherlock was off to work the case. John stayed behind with Rosie, which he didn’t mind. Alone-time with his daughter was great. They played with her new toy pirate ship while she bathed and watched a movie, before cuddling up in his and Sherlock’s bed with a book.

John hasn’t seen really seen Sherlock much since. There are a lot of experiments at Barts, witnesses to question, and the moments Sherlock spends at home he is usually pacing the living room or stuck in his mind palace. John understands. This is the same man he got to know, to love, and he only feels a pang of regret at not being able to join him in this adventure. They will have to find a balance between their family and their work, between cereal and serial killers. John needs to figure out in what capacity he wants and is able to be the Boswell to the world’s greatest detective when he is also a father and a doctor. He misses the cases, of course, the adrenaline, but after Eurus… well, Rosie can’t lose both of her parents to a violent criminal; John won’t do that to her. Maybe he could just help with research, help with medical aspects at crime scenes, and take a step back from everything else. It’s just another thing they will need to discuss, the Work. The Work has always been the priority, and John doesn’t want to keep Sherlock from it. But then, that’s just what he is doing, isn’t he? Bringing his daughter with him to Baker Street, demanding time from the detective to be with him, both emotionally and physically?

The thought seems ridiculous, but John has been unsure of himself for so long, his brain clings on to that small flicker of doubt immediately. What if Sherlock figures out that relationships really aren’t his area after all? That romance is just a distraction to him? That a family is not what he wants? This beautiful, wonderful man is too precious, after all, to give up The Game for a white picket fence and a domestic life, for a broken army doctor who is struggling to cope with his anger and self-loathing while trying to raise a daughter on his own. A man who can not even do what a man is supposed to do, because he is still grieving his dead assassin wife.

There it is again, that spiral downwards. He’d been feeling better after talking to Ella, both determined to figure out what they want, how they want their relationship- their family- to be ,and working on this sexual crisis. Now he feels defeated, pulled down by too much time alone.

He tries to write it all down, to find words for what he feels, what he wants, but it’s hard to make sense of all the emotions and desires, even to himself. One attempt after another ends up in the fireplace, burned to ash, and John finally gives it up at three in the morning. Sherlock is still not back, probably at a stake-out somewhere. He’s not even jealous. Crouching down in some back-garden or behind a curtain in an abandoned house is not fun. Still, together, they had made their best out of most stakeouts. Maybe they could even cuddle a little, or at least John could rest his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and listen to the detective ramble on about the different poisonous plants native to Great Britain or something. John wouldn’t even care.

Instead, he’s attempting to write some stupid letter because he can’t sleep.

Huffing, John gets out of his chair and walks to the window.

**How is the case going?**

**The family is still dead. SH**

John grins at the reply.

**I figured as much. What are you working on?**

**Waiting for the results on the poison, currently. Boring. SH**

**Any theories yet?**

**No one profits from the death of the murder. All possible heirs died. SH**

**And no secret twins. SH**

**What about secret wives or husbands?**

**Oh, John. You really are a conductor of light. SH**

**You’re welcome 😉**

There is no reply after that, which John is totally fine with. He has just become part of the case, maybe the most important part of it, as a conductor of light, as the drama queen calls it. John drops into the grey armchair which faintly smells of Sherlock’s aftershave. The cushions are way more comfortable than his own chair, and John folds himself into them. He remembers Sherlock fitting his whole body into it, how small he looked that day.

They had been at their lowest, then, Sherlock filling his body with drugs before Mary placed a bullet in it. John had left, afraid of losing his best friend, when he had barely survived losing him the first time. He had told Mary that he was still very angry, and he had let his anger out on the wrong person, after she died.

That had been the reason he went back to Ella, to try to deal with his aggression. Never, and he was adamant on that, would he turn it against his daughter or Sherlock, ever again. In his mediocre knowledge of psychology, he is convinced that his seemingly unrequited love had made it worse, as it mixed up with the grief over losing his wife and the guilt over loving someone else. They had worked on it for months after the adventure in Sherrinford. Ella had given him exercises to use every time he felt his anger rise in his chest, and he is proud to say that he is calmer now.

He can deal with the rest, over time. How many things had he overcome during the past years, from grieving Sherlock to getting him back? He will talk to him. As soon as the poisoner is caught, they will talk, and John will not let his mind drag him down again. Smiling to himself, John brushes his fingers over the fabric of Sherlock’s armchair.

They love each other. And that is enough, of that he is sure. They just have a few things to figure out, their case to solve. The detective, and his conductor of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like the story so far?


	7. *explicit*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smuuut ahead :)

**VII.**

His new little friend had arrived on the Wednesday after Sherlock had taken the poisoner case, and there was no time to try it out until Saturday. Rosie is with Kathy, John’s former neighbour. After Mary’s death, Kathy had helped him a lot by taking care of the little one when he did not feel like he could deal with anyone, before he got himself back together and took on the responsibility of raising his child as he should. Rosie had bonded with the elderly lady and John had agreed to her offer of spending a weekend with the little one.

After dropping Rosie off, John goes to Tesco to pick up a few things. Stepping into the flat about an hour later, he finds it empty.

“There’s my chance.” He thinks, and gets the package from the furthest corner of their wardrobe. After cleaning the toy, he sets it to charging, which leaves him with plenty of time to sort the groceries into the kitchen cupboards and take a long shower. He’s half hard by the time he steps back into the bedroom, skin tingling with excitement. He’s been looking forward to this, has gone back to the website twice during the last few days. The guy had warned that he might not achieve orgasm while trying it out for the first time, but John is strangely confident in himself today. This me-time is exactly what he needs to get his mind clear and just enjoy himself for a bit, while finding out if prostate massage, and being penetrated, even if it is just a toy for now, is something he likes.

Dimming the light and pulling the curtains closed, John shrugs his towel off and steps to the bed. He is prepared. On the nightstand, he has placed some tissue to clean off after and water-based lube, of course. He puts on music -violin- and rests on top of the duvet.

Slowly, eyes closed, John trails his hands down his body, circling his nipples and teasing himself by pulling at the tender skin. It has been a while since he has taken his time, since masturbation has been more than a quick way of dealing with his arousal. Today is just for him. John allows himself a moan, right hand remaining on his chest, as his left travels further down. His cock is more than interested by now, and he pulls in air between closed teeth, as he squeezes it for the first time.

His mind goes straight to Sherlock, imagines long, pale fingers on his skin, the detective moaning his name.

“God, how I want you, John. Open those legs for me, will you?” He whispers, and John let’s his thighs part, inviting him in.

“Hmm, eager, are we?” John feels the fingers against his scrotum, then further back. “You really can’t wait to do this. You’re craving being filled, and soon, it’s going to be me inside you. Patience, John.” Pushing away any thought, that the real Sherlock may not be this confident sex god, knowing exactly what he wants, but a man with little experience, John lets the words arouse him further, as he reaches for the lube.

“Hmm, John. I want you nice and wet. Can you do that, prepare yourself for me?”

“Fuck.” John curses as he slips his index finger in. It’s better the second time around, now that he has lube. And more patience with himself. Stroking himself slowly, he slides in deeper, before adding another finger once he feels comfortable enough.

It makes a bigger difference than he expected, but there is no pain yet, only a slight stretch that is neither uncomfortable, nor highly arousing. “Look at yourself, stretching so beautifully for me.” Sherlock whispers, his voice close to John’s ear, and John can almost feel the warmth of his breath against his skin. He is tempted to text Sherlock and tell him to come home, so he can hold him, murmur sweet nothings, but instead gives in to the fantasy. The Sherlock in his head licks his lips. John wants them wrapped around his cock.

“You can fit another one, John. I know you can.”

Adding more lube, John scissors his fingers. He has prepared female partners in the past, and most recently Sherlock, so he is quite confident in doing it adequately. There is no way he can do this without preparation, either. The toy is quite thick, especially at the top, and John is a virgin when it comes to putting things up his bum. It takes a while before he feels ready to add his ring finger as well, while his left hand finds a slow rhythm on his shaft. 

Three fingers feel like a lot, a slight burn forcing him to still for a moment, before he can go on and move them. Letting go of his cock, John goes back to stroking his chest and nipples, wet with sweat now. “Fuck, I can’t wait to get inside you, John.” Sherlock licks at his collar bone and steadily down. “I’m going to make you feel so good, you know I will.” He drags his large hands down his belly. “I’m going to fuck you, John. Soon, I’m going to press inside of you and fuck you into the mattress. You will love it.”

“God, yes.” John tosses his head to the right and moans into the pillow, three digits moving in and out slowly, teasingly. “I want that.”

“Your little friend, first, though.” Sherlock bites at his left nipple. “You’re desperate to feel it.”

Fumbling with the lube bottle, John dribbles some on his belly, then reaches for the vibrator, getting it nice and wet. It seems even bigger now, and he is a little bit scared to go on with this. His curiosity and excitement are stronger though, and John slowly pulls his fingers out. The emptiness feels strange. John fills it quickly by easing the toy in. The smooth texture allows it to fit quite well, and John concentrates fully on the sensation of it resting inside him and against his perineum.

“Fuck.” He curses, touching the base of the vibrator to push it in fully. His back strains of the bed, as the tips hits his prostate.

“Fuck.” John moans, closing his hand around his cock, again, squeezing tighter than before. It is a completely new sensation, and he has to take a few calming breaths before he can even think about vibration patterns and intensity. John grabs at the base, slowly moves the toy in and out, massaging that point inside him that just set him on fire moments ago.

Cursing a third time, John scrambles for the remote control. He has used vibration toys before, during encounters with ex-girlfriends, gauging their reactions to heighten their pleasure. Now, it’s about him, figuring out which pattern he likes, not that he is going to try all six his first time around.

“Hmm, yes, start slow. Take your time. I can wait.” Sherlock rests a warm hand on his belly, and John bites his lip so he won’t yell the whole street down. God, he wants this, and he wants it now. Scrambling for the remote control, John presses the button in the middle. First pattern, the mildest of the intensity scale, and John goes off like a rocket.

The buzzing against his prostate makes his body tingle down to his toes and John raises his legs as leverage against the mattress. Having his perineum stimulated at the same time, that’s what heaven must feel like.

BZZZZZZZ.

His body is on fire, his fingers are dripping, and he is close to feeling overstimulated. It’s a lot of new sensations, almost too much of a good thing. He is sweating all over, hands clinging to the bedsheet. No regrets on spending more on the remote control, because he needs something to hold on to. John wants to yell for Sherlock, ask him to just hold him while his world is turned upside down. But then he remembers there is a poisoner on the loose and a consulting detective chasing after him. John imagines him, coat flapping behind him, all cheekbones and fiery eyes.

He remembers their first chase, their first case, and the way Sherlock smiled over dinner afterward. That smile was what he had thought about when he fucked his fist that night, hard and fast, how Sherlock had turned his life around for the better.

And he would have never experienced this either, if it weren’t for Sherlock. Under the shower, last week, his fingers had made him feel nothing much, but this, this is amazing. Not just amazing, but so much more, and if he were to write a blog about this – in theory- he would spend hours on finding just the right adjectives to describe how this feels. 

John can hear himself moaning into the cushion, as the toy buzzes on, cock straining against his belly, precum glistening at the tip. Feeling brave, John grabs the remote control and switches the intensity to two.

It doesn’t take long, after that. Head thrown back, cock in a night grip, John orgasms, hard. A loud ‘AH’ escapes his throat, as come hits his belly and chest in ropes. There is no doubt in his mind, after this, that he will very much enjoy being fucked by Sherlock, because if it is even half as good as this... no, it’s going to be better, with Sherlock’s gorgeous body wrapped around him, and his real voice whispering dirty words into his ear.

As his orgasm subsides, John feels overstimulated by the vibration and switches it off. For a while, he just rests there, looking up at the ceiling without really seeing it. His whole body is buzzing, and he is overly aware of the toy lodged into his anus. As he catches his breath, John realises he is smiling, which makes him smile even harder.

“Fuck.” He grins, before slowly pulling out his little friend.

* * *

John is all cleaned up and wrapped in his towel, when he steps into the kitchen. His whole body is still buzzing, and he tries to remember when he last felt this comfortable in his body, so sated. He needs to tell Sherlock, talk to him about how he can’t wait to be topped. Maybe they could use the toy in the beginning, before progressing further.

John stops abruptly when he spots the detective leaning over his microscope, coat carelessly flung over John’s armchair.

“Hi, beautiful.” He whispers, trailing his nose along Sherlock’s temple and into his hair, where he rests his forehead, perfectly content now that the smell of Sherlock’s shampoo and skin are filling his nose, and his arms are full of consulting detective. John doesn’t even mind that there seems to be no reaction from his partner. The work, after all, is the focus right now. So, John busies himself just taking in the warmth of the body in front of him.

This, what just happened in the bedroom, is half of their relationship problems fixed. John can give himself to Sherlock in this way, as a man who enjoys prostate stimulation. It’s different from everything he and Mary ever had – and maybe he should send Mrs. Hudson a fruit basket as a way of thanks- and at the same time, it’s more than that. It’s a self-discovery and a part of pleasure he can share with the most important man in his life. God, he is excited about that.

“Would you be interested in joining me in the bedroom, later?” John mumbles into the raven curls.

“You seem to be getting on quite well, on your own.” Sherlock’s eyes are still focused on the microscope, even though John is convinced he is not seeing anything, really. “You have been quite vocal about your self-enjoyment.”

“There was something I wanted to find out about myself, Sherlock.”

“Well, your experiment seemed to be quite successful, John.” Sherlock raises to his feet, practically shoving John off, bringing distance between the two of them. And John is utterly confused, because Sherlock does not seem to be happy for him at all. On the contrary, there is anger bubbling under the surface, as the detective flings his hands into the air, gesturing wildly.

“So much so, that self-satisfaction seems to be your preferred option now, instead of, as I had expected, working on our problems. Over the past two weeks, John Watson, you have not initiated sexual contact, with one exception. So, maybe you would rather continue down that road and masturbate, because unlike me, your hands are apparently are ‘doing it for you.” He raises his hand in quotation marks.

John huffs a breath. Great. Instead of communicating, which had been recommended to him, he had shut his partner out and tried to fix things on his own. Well done, Watson, fucked it up even more when he thought he was doing a good thing. Sherlock must have felt awful, not knowing where they were standing with their relationship and John being all focused on himself. A quick ‘Hey, I’m trying to figure out what I like, please be patient, okay?’ would have sufficed. Sherlock was an understanding man when it came to alone time, well, on his good days. This needs to be turned right, immediately.

“No, Sherlock, that’s not… God, I’m shite at this.” He combs his fingers through his short hair, using the pain in his scalp to focus himself. “Can we talk about this?”

The detective goes stiff at that, back snapping into a straight line, as he slowly turns. John can see that he has schooled his expression into something neutral. His eyes though, are filled with pain, and John doesn’t understand why. Walking over, John wraps his arms around him from behind.

Sherlock’s voice, when he speaks, is quiet, but breaks halfway through his sentence. “Does this mean you are breaking up with me?” He asks. “That’s what people mean when they say they want to talk, don’t they?”

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taaaaaalking

**VIII.**

John is devastated at the pain in Sherlock’s voice, in his eyes. His hands are balling into fists, because he wanted to make things better, not hurt his partner even more. Not for a second does he want Sherlock to think that he is not desired, not loved by John.

“No, God, no.” He reaches out for Sherlock and within a moment, six feet of consulting detective collapse against him. Clutching his arms into the fabric of the suit jacket, John wraps his arms around him. “No, Sherlock. Never. I just want…I just want us to talk, love. About what we want and need in this relationship.”

Sherlock has his face hidden against his neck, and John combs one hand through his hair in an attempt to calm him. “I was scared that after we failed to achieve penetration, twice, you would prefer to not continue a romantic relationship, due to the lack of sexual contact.”

“God, I’m an idiot.” John pulls him even closer, lips trailing against the side of Sherlock’s head. “I should have talked to you. I worried too, you know, because I was the one to fail at penetration. Me. You were perfect that night. And I never expected that I would… shut down like that.” He feels Sherlock move, as if he wanted to disagree, and quickly continues to talk. “I want you, Sherlock. I’m attracted to you, and still I failed. And I thought about how I could make it up to you. The past few weeks, I tried to figure out how we could be together properly, to prove to you that I am man enough for you.”

John pulls back a bit, hands cupping Sherlock’s cheeks, so he can look into his eyes. “I also wanted to talk to you, to find out what your expectations are. We didn’t do that. We just went from best friends to partners, and we didn’t talk. I think, we should.”

Pale eyes rest on his face for a moment, and John can almost hear the cogwheels churning in the beautiful mind behind them. Immediately, he leans into the touch, when Sherlock presses their mouths together. They hold still, lips resting against each other, before the detective pulls back just a bit, to speak.

“I have learned that it is easier to talk in open spaces, preferably while walking.” He says and John nods, tempting him into another kiss.

“Sounds good. Let me just get properly dressed, yeah?”

* * *

They walk for a while, as John’s brain tries to find the first words to start this important conversation.

They walk close together, hands almost touching between them, and even though they are a little tense, John can sense that Sherlock is feeling better than before.

“Because until a few minutes ago, he thought you were breaking up with him.” John thinks, scolding himself.

They walk, and when they enter Regent’s Park, John takes a deep breath and reaches his hand out an inch or two, until their pinky fingers hooked into each other. It’s not hand holding, not really, but close enough. They have never done that in public and John wonders if people even notice it anymore, these days, public affection between same sex couples.

“I…” John licks his lips. “Can you tell me what you want? For us?” Maybe it’s easier that way, to hear from Sherlock first. As a scientist, he is good at putting things into words, better than the wannabe writer in John ever could. Also, he still isn’t brave, he never was.

“I thought about this, of course, while you were getting dressed. And before. I like that we are living together, sharing a room. Those sleeping arrangements are quite acceptable. I do like – and I assume this is a confidential conversation – the cuddling, very much so. I like the quiet moments we share just as much as the chaos Rosie produces around us.”

“I like cuddling too.” John grins, relieved by all the positive things Sherlock is saying. He half expected a detailed list about everything their relationship is lacking. It is what he gets the next moment, and it is a wonderful list.

“What I want,” Sherlock smiles to himself, eyes fixed on the line of trees in the distance. “is us. The way we were before. I want cases, and late-night take-away. I want us in Baker Street, and maybe in Sussex one day, when we are too old for the city. I want marriage, in a few years. I want you to continue your blog, because your horrible writing is the best love letter to my brain ever written. I want to keep you awake with my violin, some nights, and with kisses in others.” Sherlock stops, looking over the water. “I want so many little things, everyday things, that it would take hours to list, and things I don’t know I want yet.”

John squeezes his hand, tears stinging in his eyes. Leave it to a self-diagnosed sociopath to turn the answer to a question into the most beautiful words he has ever heard.

“That’s, wow, I don’t even know what to say.” John raises Sherlock’s fingers to his mouth to kiss them. “That sounds perfect.” They move away from the path to stand by the water, fingers intertwined.

“I have the feeling that there is a ‘but’ in there.” Sherlock’s thumb is drawing circles on the back of his hand, slow and deliberate.

“No but, love. Just more things we need to talk about. I want all those things, too, but I’m not sure if it will be that easy. For example, cases. I want to join you on them. I miss it, solving crime with you. But I have a daughter to consider. She needs to be my priority, and I need to be safe for her.”

Another stretch of silence falls upon them, in which one of the ducks seems to find an interest in them, circling for a while until it gives up, when there are no breadcrumbs in sight. John almost feels the need to apologise for that.

“After you and Rosie moved in, I asked a favour of my brother.” Sherlock is fiddling with the hem of his coat sleeve, something John has never seen him do. “I knew that never again can someone shoot at you, or try to drown you in a well, or… anything else that is very likely to happen in our profession. Mycroft has an agent available at all times for us. If things get difficult, on cases, or there is any chance that the suspect has a weapon, they will be responsible for our security. It is something I never wanted and would have broken my brother’s overly large nose for suggesting, when I was younger, but it is the security your daughter deserves, that you deserve. I also will avoid taking unnecessary risks from now on, as much as I can. I…” John pulls him against his chest, interrupting the flow of words.

“Thank you.” He whispers against the wool of the coat, as it surrounds him on both sides. He feels very protected, engulfed in Sherlock Holmes, mentally too. He feels protected, and that’s still new, because before they began dating, he had always seen himself as a protector, the one to help. He will have to get used to it, in the long run, but for now, it’s a wonderful feeling that floods his body with contentment.

“This means that you and I are now mostly responsible for mental aspects of crime solving.”

“No.”

“No?” Sherlock takes a small step backwards to look at him.

“You’re responsible for mental aspects. I’m responsible for conducting light.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” There is a low chuckle rumbling in the detective’s throat, and John wants to kiss and lick at the pale skin and make it his own. Only the fact that they are in the middle of Regents Park holds him back. Instead, he holds out his hand for Sherlock to take and they continue walking. He feels so much for confident in their relationship and in himself already. There are still things to discuss, though, and John wants to get them out of his system, now rather than later.

“You love the leg work, though. Won’t you miss it? The adrenaline of the chase? Solving puzzles with a gun pressed to the back of your head?” Both of them burst into laughter at the same time, because isn’t that the most ridiculous thing to be addicted to, danger? As it dies down, Sherlock starts talking again, and John walks at his side and listens.

“Before I met you, way before, there were the drugs. After that, there was only the Work. The Work was what I focused on, no matter the risk. My family preferred me fighting criminals to the heroin, so they didn’t interfere. Well, Mycroft did, naturally, but to a degree I could handle. And I managed to integrate you into the Work, to have a friend.” The Pavilion comes into sight, and they both turn towards it, as on instinct.

“The danger, as unnecessary as it often was, was an attempt to prove to myself that the Work was still more important to me than you were. A ridiculous notion, I know that now.” And John feels the need to cry again.

“I’m still Sherlock Holmes with the bullet proof vest, John. I still need the puzzles, and the experiments. Everything else is secondary.”

“Two comments on that.” John grins at him, but his voice is rough with tears. “Firstly, you’re just getting more sentimental with old age.” Sherlock has that open smile around his lips that John loves so much. “Secondly, I should have known you were prepared for anything. I should have brought up my worries sooner.” He stops and looks up at the detective. “It’s good that we’re talking now. And I think we can do this. We’ll need time, of course, but I think we can adjust to that.”

“I agree.” Sherlock picks a small leaf out of John’s hair.

“Coffee?”

* * *

They pick up coffee at a chippy before continuing their walk. For a while, Sherlock talks about the case, which is still not solved. There is no secret spouse, and Sherlock needs to start from scratch. They find a bench and sit down, closer to each other than they have ever before.

“Mike told me he had a potential flatmate for me while we had coffee on a bench like that.” John muses, taking a ship of coffee. “Changed my life.”

“Did we ever thank him for it?”

“No, I don’t think we did. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“We should.”

“We should.” John agrees, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, ignoring the strange looks from a group of elderly gentlemen.

“What else did you want to talk about?” Sherlock asks, sipping at his caramel macchiato.

“Rosie.”

“What about her?”

“We need to define your role in her life, Sherlock. We never talked about things like that, and I don’t even know if you ever considered having children, but she and I are a package deal, so to say. And I would like to talk about what you think and feel about that. And, you know, after what we just discussed, I expect another massive speech from you.” He nudges the detective with his elbow.

Sherlock smirks. “Well, your daughter is nice, and I have no reason to consider evicting her as a flatmate as of yet.”

“That’s a relief.”

“On a serious note, John. I like her a lot. I like spending time with her, entertaining her while you’re busy. I just…” He clears his throat. “I shouldn’t be the one to define my role in her life. You are her parent, and I don’t have any claim on her other than that I love her.”

And isn’t that the most wonderful thing in the world? John feels his heart flood with love for this amazing, brilliant man who has let them both into his life and his heart without even a moment of hesitation, their past forgotten. He considers making a speech, like Sherlock did, but reduces it to the essence of what needs to be said.

“I want you to be her parent.”

Sherlock’s smile at that could light a room, and he blinks a few times, trying not to cry. “I want that, too. I’m not sure I’ll be good at it. But she is interesting, and curious, and funny, and I want to be part of her life.”

Sherlock sets his coffee cup down, looking up from where he is bent over, and John pulls him up and to standing. He pushes a stray curl from the detective’s forehead.

“What about you, John? We focused on me, a lot, but you must have expectations, too.”

“Well, everything you said, I want that too. And I know, we’ll struggle with finding our way, as families do, but I think we’ll manage. There are things I want to say, though.” He takes a deep breath and blinks up, licking his lips.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

And it is the first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be a chapter next Thursday, as I am on holiday, but I'll post another one in the morning (It's Saturday night for me rn… time zones…)


	9. Chapter 9

**IX.**

Sherlock’s lips are firm on his, and strong arms pull him up and against his chest, as he kisses the words away, and makes them his. They haven’t said them, before, even though they have rested on the tip of his tongue for a while. John loves Sherlock; has loved him for so long, and having finally said the words feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. After their conversation, he almost feels like he is floating now, as most of his worries have dissolved to dust. There is just one more thing to discuss, he knows, but the park is probably not the place for that. Also, it means that he has to do more than listen and agree to what Sherlock says, but that he has to lay open his soul to Sherlock. But John is going to be brave today.

“I always thought love confessions were redundant and overly sentimental, but I must say that what you just said makes me very happy.” Sherlock whispers against John’s mouth, before they are kissing again. “I reciprocate those feelings, obviously.”

“Obviously.” John grins, licking at the cupids bow, teasing, until Sherlock’s tongue touches his, forgetting about the fact that they are British men in public for just a moment.

At first, he thinks Sherlock is crying, but then another drop hits his nose, and another, and another, and John pulls away.

“It’s bloody raining.” He looks up at the grey sky.

“I should inform you that you are living in England, a country famously known for its frequent rains.”

“Shut up and race me home.”

With that, John speeds off, Sherlock right at his heels.

They arrive at Baker Street soaked to the bone and giggling, and while Sherlock strips off, John draws them a bath to warm up. He adds one of their expensive bath products, and soon the whole bathroom smells of some tropical fruit. Sherlock gets in first and John undresses and steps into the tub, resting his head against a pale shoulder. “You might have underestimated the effectiveness of this bathing supplement.” Sherlock comments, and John scoops up some foam to drop it on his lover’s head. He looks ridiculously beautiful, and John kisses him deeply.

“Sherlock?” He pulls back a bit, to look at the detective. 

“Hmm?”

John smears kisses to the lines of Sherlock’s jaw and cheeks, rolling over so he can reach him better. “I need to explain my behaviour over the last few weeks. I know I was all caught up in my head and I’ll try to tell you why.” Turning back around, he rests his head against Sherlock’s chest and shoulder. “It might take a while.”

“Well, you have about twenty to thirty minutes, before the water gets cold.”

“I’ll manage.” John smirks. “So, I talked to Ella about…” He clears his throat. “About my inability to penetrate you.” It sounds clinical, but his doctorly distance helps him to continue. “And we talked about your theory that it has to do with Mary. Maybe it does, maybe I’m just putting myself under pressure, because this, us, is so important to me, doesn’t matter right now. I just want you to know that I’m working on it.” He feels Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, and the pressure of lips against the crown of his head. “And I talked to the Hudders. She told me you worried.”

“She tends to get me to overshare. We are lucky to have her on our side; she would be a great criminal.”

John chuckles. ”She asked me a question, a clever one.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Sherlock strokes long finger through John’s hair. “Cleverness, I mean.”

“She asked me whether there is a way of us being together that is different from my love life with Mary, so my stupid brain doesn’t get in the way of us anymore.” He kisses his wrist, to buy some time. “And I never… I never did that. I mean, I’ve shagged men once or twice, not that those things matter. But I have never been…” He curses at himself, closing his eyes for a moment, so he can find the right words.

“I wanted to find out if I liked it. After what happened, I didn’t want to disappoint you, again. So, for a while now, I experimented, as you called it. First, I touched myself, while wanking. That didn’t really work, and I got frustrated. So, last week, I ordered a toy, and I tried it earlier.” He drops more kisses to Sherlock’s under arm up to his elbow.

“I fucking loved it. Like, I imagined I would use it a few times and get used to the feeling, but I got knocked out of my socks. It’s,” He takes another breath, remembering how he felt a few hours earlier, how sated he had been. He can feel his cock fill at the memory, hidden under the foam for now. “I can’t describe it, really. It just felt bloody brilliant.”

John leans his head back, so Sherlock can kiss him, and even with the awkward angle, John enjoys it very much. He could kiss Sherlock for hours and hours.

“I didn’t want to shut you out, or make you feel like I didn’t want to be without you in any way. I just wanted to find a way for us to be together.”

“Well, I did behave like a drama queen, earlier.” Sherlock admits, and John grins and the choice of words. “I just felt unsure, myself, of what our difficulties would mean, how our relationship would develop, if we couldn’t manage to be sexually satisfying for each other.” Long fingers trail along his chest and belly. “My communication skills lacked just as much as yours did, John. This isn’t all your fault.”

“It felt like it was, to me. I’m just glad you behaved like a drama queen, else we would probably have never talked. And I love that we can be so honest with each other. We should continue to be, I think, even if it isn’t always easy.”

John felt his partner nod behind him. “We already know the worst about each other, John.”

“We do. And the best.”

They lie quiet, for a moment, caught up in their own thoughts.

“Do you want to know the conclusion of my experiment?”

A nod, and a kiss to his temple.

“I really want you to make love to me.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, for a moment. “You want me to be the penetrating partner?” He asks, words coming slowly. And yes, that is exactly what he wants. John being fucked by Sherlock Holmes, that is different. He could lean back and let Sherlock do the work, which has worked well with all their previous sexual encounters. And John would be able to let go of wanting to be the provider of both lust and attention, at least in theory. God, he really wants to try.

“We could ask Mrs. H to watch Rosie, order take away and see where things go.” He suggests, turning to straddle Sherlock’s hips, which is difficult in the limited space of the tub, and he is splashing water all over the bathroom during the attempt. 

“I think we should do this spontaneously, John, to take away any pressure of you wanting things to be perfect.” John hasn’t considered that, but Sherlock is not a genius for nothing.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He kisses the sweet mouth beneath him, getting lost in the feeling. “Now?” he asks, being brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter on Sunday.  
> Leave me some comments to come home to, will you?  
> It's time to read, sleep and bicyle for me, now. Can't wait :)


	10. *explicit*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, it's 12:03 am :P

**X.**

Sherlock is looking up at him with unsure eyes, and John wonders if he said something wrong.

“Only if you want, of course.” He adds, quickly.

Sherlock bites his lips, before he speaks.

“I think it’s great that you have discovered that part of you, and I want us to try, I really do. But John, I never considered that role within our sexual relationship. It feels like a big responsibility and I’m inexperienced. I never penetrated anyone before, and you haven’t been penetrated before, and so many things could go wrong.”

John closes his eyes. He’s been an arsehole, again, only considering his own part in this, oblivious to the fact that Sherlock might not want this or have his own doubts. He just assumed that every man must like putting his cock in other people, no worries. Stupid, when just weeks ago he failed at that, himself. His erection is already flagging, just as his excitement is.

“Can we talk about our expectations in this? Like we did today, at the park?” Sherlock reaches up into his hair.

“Yeah, that is a brilliant idea. Should we…?” He gestures towards the bedroom door, and Sherlock nods.

They take their time, getting out of the tub and drying each other off, exchanging sipping kisses and light touches, before they stroll into the bedroom and slip under the duvet. John can feel Sherlock’s naked skin against his own, can smell the fruit of the bath salt. The detective’s hair is damp as his head rests on John’s shoulder, their roles were reversed. “Should I start?” John asks, voice quiet.

“You can.”

“I only have limited experience in this, Sherlock. I don’t really know what to expect, I only know that being stretched around that toy, and feeling something pressed against my prostate felt like heaven, and combining that with you touching me, and kissing me, god…” He glances at the nightstand as he mentions his little friend. His cock stirs, again.

“Maybe, maybe we could do that. I could watch you, and touch you, while you use that toy. I could try stimulating you with my fingers.” Sherlock takes a breath. “What I want to say is, that maybe we should take it slow, work up to it, before attempting full anal sex.”

“Oh, god yes.” John breathes, and a second later, Sherlock’s lips are on his.

* * *

Slow is what they should have done from the beginning, because slow feels amazing right now. Being pressed into the mattress by the delicious weight of Sherlock Holmes, John’s lips are already swollen from kissing. They are moving against each other teasingly, hips rocking and circling, cocks dragging against the other and against hot, damp skin.

“Fuck.” John moans, resting his head into the cushion for a moment to look up at the man he loves. Sherlock’s lips are red from how many times John has nipped at them, sucked them between his own. The detective has his eyes closed, and his pale skin is shaded in a lovely pink that John leans up to kiss, cheeks first, then the lids of his eyes. Their hips still for a moment, as if this small touch took all their concentration, and John falls in love with Sherlock just a little bit more. He whispers that against Sherlock’s temple, and the pink in the detective’s cheeks deepens.

“And now, to destroy the romance,” John flops back into the mattress. “I still owe you a blow job from the other time.”

Silvergreenblue eyes open and Sherlock raises his left eyebrow. He looks mischievous and sweet at the same time, a wonderful combination. “You mean from the time Rosie woke up before I could even really get started?”

John grins, tucking a loose curl behind an ear. “Okay, I don’t owe you a blow job. I just really want to give you one.”

“I can’t really argue with that, can I?” Sherlock grins and sits up. They rearrange themselves until Sherlock is propped up against the headboard. Making himself comfortable on the mattress, body in a ninety-degree angle to his partner, John takes his erection in hand. Three slow, deliberate pulls, and John feels his mouth water at the sight of the wet, glistening tip, foreskin fully retracted. Fingers holding the base, John licks at the scrotum first, mouthing at the tender skin in a tease. Slow, that is their new rule, and the doctor is taking it to heart. Nipping at the thigh closer to him, adding colour to the tender skin, John continues moving his hand in a teasing rhythm.

He loves doing this. The way Sherlock tastes, and sounds, the way he squirms into his touch, it’s lovely. When John looks up, he sees a quivering belly, a heaving chest and a head thrown back. Sherlock is a Greek god, body made of marble, sculpted to perfection. The bullet wound is a mark on that skin, like a crater, and other than the times he has seen it before, this time, it doesn’t feel John with anger, but with the desire to make up for it, today and every day after that. Reaching out, John takes Sherlock’s hand in his and squeezes, a silent reassurance they both need.

Slow feels brilliant right now, as John drags his tongue up the shaft, following the most prominent vein with the tip. Up and down he licks, savouring the texture and taste of Sherlock’s skin, salty and musky and delicious.

“John, fuck.” Sherlock moans, and profanities out of that posh mouth, that is what does it for John. He needs to lift his hips from the duvet for a moment, because the pressure combined with those sounds take him close to an orgasm he does not yet want. Sherlock, always the observer, notices and grins down at him.

John’s revenge is sucking the pink head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, which makes the detective throw his head to the side with a groan. “Oh, fuck. John, that’s…” The sentence remains unfinished, as John hollows his cheeks, sliding his lips further down. A fresh spurt of precum hits his tongue and John licks it away.

For a while, he fully concentrates on the crown, licking and sucking at it, as Sherlock moans, hips thrusting up, as John holds them down. He pops off, to change his position, his neck already protesting, when Sherlock sits up.

“On your back, please, John.” He orders, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, and John is reluctant to let go of that lovely mouthful of erection, but Sherlock is a genius and he can’t wait to be surprised, so he licks at the head one final time, before he arranges himself at the detective’s side, head on the cushion.

“Like that?” He asks and receives a passionate kiss for it, Sherlock’s tongue thrusting into his mouth, teeth clicking together.

“You are very good at this, John.” Sherlock mumbles, lips wrapping around his ear lobe a moment later and John can’t help but grin with pride.

“Thank you.” He giggles in his contentment. There is no room for doubt or worrying that tonight won’t be perfect. It doesn’t need to be. Relieving himself of the burden of wanting to be the ultimate lover, to make Sherlock’s first sexual experiences as fantastic as they can be, and to just enjoy the moment and be with the love of his life, John feels so much lighter. Caught up in that thought for a second, John only realises Sherlock is moving when the detective flings one leg over him. Scooting back a little, that brings John’s favourite cock within reach, and John immediately leans up to suck the head back into his mouth.

It doesn’t come as a surprise, in their position, that a moment later, wet heat engulfs John’s erection, which had been neglected so far. Sherlock is teasing his foreskin, making John want to thrust up into the warmth. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, and for a moment, just enjoys the light suction Sherlock is providing, long fingers wrapped around the base. John is very aware of every touch of the clever tongue against his frenulum and down the shaft, and for a moment, he just needs to let go of Sherlock to look down. The image that hits him makes is hard to not to come. He can just see that plump lower lip wrapped around his cock, sees Sherlock’s adam's apple bob as he swallows. And god, the sounds he is making, humming deep down in his throat. John bites his lower lip to hold back a moan of his own.

“I don’t think you have grasped the concept of sixty-nine just yet.” A voice in his head teases, sounding a lot like Sherlock’s, and John takes a breath, trying to focus, before taking the detective’s cock back into his mouth. For a while, then, there is only the sound of stifled moans, of sliding lips and throats opening, and then Sherlock is suddenly popping off. John cannot hold back a groan of frustration. He feels on fire, and already so close to the edge, that the sudden loss of heat comes as quite a surprise. And he is surprised again, when Sherlock digs his knees deeper into the mattress and uses the leverage to tilt John’s hips up a bit. A moment later, a pointed tongue follows the line of his perineum down to his hole.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John pulls away to give words to the pleasure he is experiencing right now.

“Good?” comes the question from somewhere between his thighs and all John can manage is a nod and a nod and a breathed “Oh god, yes.”

Sherlock is on him again in a heartbeat and John can’t even think of reciprocating right now, when the firm pressure is driving him mad. In a less dazed state, he might have chuckled at the enthusiasm with which his partner is licking at him, drawing circles on the puckered flesh. He is making greedy little noises, rocking his hips down and against John’s lips, where they hang open.

“Just a moment, love.” John wraps his fingers around the base, which is all that he can manage right now. “This feels so fucking good.”

Sherlock makes a sound that is almost a growl and just continues his attack on John’s sanity, nipping at his left buttock, before diving back to suck at his rim. The muscle softens, until it gives way and the tip of Sherlock’s tongue slips into him.

“God, fuck, you genius man.” John curses. “I need…. Oh fuck. I need…” He doesn’t know what he needs, exactly, but if he doesn’t come within the next second, he might die. His cock, neglected at the moment, is dripping with precum, desperately seeking contact with Sherlock’s skin and brushing against his chest from time to time. It’s not enough.

“Please, Sherlock.” He begs and is given pity a moment later.

All it takes, then, are three quick, fast thrusts into Sherlock’s waiting mouth, up, up, up, until John erupts, one long finger pressed deep into him. He is too dazed to recognize the flurry of movement as Sherlock rearranging himself, so he can press his face against the doctor’s neck, pulling at his cock in desperation. As hot cum hits his belly and chest, John reaches out to stroke damp curls.

“Thank you.” John whispers, blinking away tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daarlings, thank you for all the lovely comments. I had a wonderful holiday (just a few days in the mountains) and am glad to be back for a bit before I'm flying to London :D


	11. Chapter 11

**XI.**

John only realises he has fallen asleep, one arm wrapped loosely around Sherlock’s middle, when he wakes up to an ‘OH’. Blinking, he sits up and rubs at his palms over his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, John.” Sherlock is already half out of bed, and John smiles at the sight of that muscled back and superb bottom, just out of reach from where he is sitting. “I just had an idea about the case.”

John is fully awake at that, because on a Rosie-less day, what else would they do but have sex and solve crimes? “Can I make a suggestion?” He smirks, sinking back into the mattress, arms behind his back.

The detective turns on his way to the bathroom, as John – deliberately slowly- opens his legs. “Come back to bed and tell me everything about it.”

With a grin, Sherlock takes two large steps around the bed and then lets his full weight flop down on John, who huffs a laugh and wraps all his limbs around his partner. It’s not quite comfortable, but gives him access to Sherlock’s warmth and scent, and most importantly, that squeezable bum. John is surely going to seize the opportunity.

Trailing kisses along a cheekbone, John pulls the duvet over their legs. “Talk me through your thought process?” He asks, and he is still amazed by how much Sherlock likes it when he shows interest in his work, even after all this time.

“Do you want the details?”

“I know there’s a family dead.”

“Yes, eleven men and women poisoned at an annual family meeting. A mother, a widow, and her four children, three of whom were married, and her three grandchildren. Mrs. Abbs, the mother, had no siblings, neither had her sons and daughters in law. They were the only living family members, and someone poisoned them all. The Abbs are quite wealthy, so Lestrade and his team assumed – and I am inclined to believe it as well- that they were murdered for their money.”

Sherlock’s voice is muffled against John’s neck, and the doctor would hear him list all his knowledge about ash, if only he could lie here and hold him like this. He will never get bored with Sherlock Holmes, this genius, lovely man, who mends his heart with every touch, every small word.

“Your idea about a secret spouse seemed interesting, but turned out to be completely idiotic.”

“Oi!” John pokes at his ribs and Sherlock squeals in surprise, a sound so adorable, John needs to kiss him, press his own laughter into that lovely mouth. Even as the giggle subsides, their kisses continue, turning slow and tender, their noses rubbing against each other.

As they pull away, the detective looks dazed, eyes unfocused, an expression John is sure he is mirroring back, the difference being that Sherlock recovers quite quickly.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be offended, John. Most people are idiots. I just learned that some idiots are tolerable, and I even like a few of them.”

“Flatterer.” John smirks, squeezing Sherlock’s bum which is hands have never strayed far from.

“Quite. Anyway, back to the case. Lestrade has done research, and other than the marriages we were already aware of, none of the family members were married, either here or in another country. I doubted money as a motive, for a while.” Sherlock nudges his face into the space between John’s chin and chest; the doctor resting his nose in his hair.

“Eliminating the impossible, the murderer has to be among the dead. It is driving me mad not to know who it was, because none of them would profit from killing their family and dying themselves.”

“Maybe they poisoned themselves by accident? Drank from the wrong cup?”

“No one would be so stupid, John. Everyone would identify you as a murderer, if you were the last man standing in a situation like this. The only heir.”

“Murder suicide?”

“Possible. But I have a different theory.” Sherlock turns to his back and steeples his hands under his chin. “It occurred to me as you slept. For a while, I just watched the lines on your face shift, which is quite entertaining, but then I got to think about the mass murder.”

“That is very romantic, and also a little bit creepy.” John chuckles, moving his hands up Sherlock’s back.

“For the love of God, could you just let me talk for a moment,” Sherlock says, without any real heat. “I am already having difficulties concentrating when you are touching me, now you are making it even harder.”

“I’m making you harder?” John counters, rolling away just in time for Sherlock’s swatting hand to miss his upper arm.

“Do you want to hear about the case or not?” Sherlock pouts, and John needs to kiss that lovely mouth.

“I do. Sorry, I’ll behave.” He opens his arms, so Sherlock can rest back against him.

“Watching you sleep, I thought about how I would murder for you, without hesitation.” The detective states and John takes his hand to kiss it. He believes every word. Sherlock shot Magnusson, for him, no matter the consequences for his own life. And John would do the same, would kill a thousand cabbie serial killers if necessary. “Then I considered the case. The murderer didn’t have a spouse who would benefit from the death of the eleven Abbs. But they might have had a child.”

“A child?”

“A secret child, John. I know how that sounds. Why would anyone hide a child from their family, or kill themselves when they have a child to raise? That is what we have to find out. And we will. But it just has to be a child. A mere lover wouldn’t get any inheritance, neither would a friend or business partner. And people would do anything for their children. I would do anything for Rosie, even poison my family. Well, I did that, before. I might hesitate at murdering them, but if that were the only way out…”

John interrupts the monologue with a kiss, trying to pour all the love into it that is currently flooding his body.

“You love her so much.” He states, close to tears. “Murder is a violent way to express that, but you’d do it, because you love her.”

“Of course, I do. I offered to raise her with you. I meant what I said earlier. Being a stepparent might be a difficult role to take, but I am happy to take it on. She’s clever, and she makes me smile more than I can say.”

John is crying then, happy tears slipping down his cheeks. “God, Sherlock. You’ll never be that to her, a stepparent. She’ll never know anyone but you. You’ll be her father. You already are.”

Strong arms wrap around him, as the detective rests their foreheads together. “Let’s make this world a safer place then, for our daughter, and solve that murder.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, they are both dressed, and Sherlock has placed pictures of the four possible suspects on the wall behind the sofa, which they are currently staring at.

“The grandchildren are too young to have either fathered or given birth to a child of their own. That leaves Karen Abbs’ four children. Peter, Amy, Phillip and Scott.” Sherlock points at the portraits, one after the other.”

“Must be one of the married ones, right? I mean, who would Phillip need to hide a child from?” John tries to figure out which one of the people in front of him would be capable of murdering their whole family.

“If we continue that thought, we would have to exclude Amy just by probability, even though poison is considered a woman’s murder weapon of choice. It would be harder for a woman to hide a pregnancy than it would be for a man to impregnate a partner who is not their legal spouse.”

“Leaves Peter and Scott.”

“I’ve been to their flats. Peter was very socially awkward. Any contact outside his family was difficult for him. Not impossible, though, for him to have an affair.” John focuses on the oldest son. Peter had barely any hair left and seemed very aware of the camera pointed at him, eyes shying away.

“And Scott?”

“Scott was very religious. I read his blog. He was all about waiting for sex until marriage, against gay people, and convinced that a wife belonged home with the children.”

“Charming. So, he would have believed in monogamy, too. Doesn’t mean he played by the rules, though. Those people tend to be flexible with sin, when it’s about what suits them most.” The youngest Abbs son was thinner than his brothers, with eyebrows that seemed to cover his whole forehead, and a wide smile on his face. John’s gut doesn’t scream murderer at that either.

“Yes, but then he had three legitimate children, who would have inherited the family fortune anyway. Humans are not beyond killing their offspring, I realise that. But it seems very unlikely.” Sherlock steps closer, not a care in the world about the living room table, which he was crossing, to took at the four Abbs siblings. An annoyed sound escapes his throat. “God, I hate speculations. None of them help us with trying to figure out which flat to search first.”

“What if we excluded Phillip too soon?” John asks, now that his boyfriend’s back is blocking his view of the other three.

“You said it yourself, what reason would he have to hide a child? We’re not living in the dark ages, in fear of illegitimate children.”

They are both quiet for a while, lost in thought. “Maybe we’ll find something at his flat.”

Sherlock nods, stepping off the desk. He looks ridiculously good while doing it, all dressed up in his grey shirt and tight black trousers. “Let’s go, then. We can pick up Rosie after.” He orders, grabbing his phone

John is halfway to the door, when he stops. “Shouldn’t we contact Lestrade first? He can give us access.”

“Oh, John, were has the adventurer in you gone? We don’t need Lestrade to get into a ground level flat.”

John huffs a laugh. “We said no more unnecessary risks.”

“It’s the flat of a dead man. Not very risky, if you ask me.”

“Alright then, at your responsibility.” John agrees and follows Sherlock out into the streets of London. As they walk, side by side, the detective and his doctor, John feels his chest swell with pride to be at the side of this genius man, for everyone to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posten from London  
> God, I love this city


	12. Chapter 12

**XII.**

The door of the flat is sealed by NSY, but it takes Sherlock only a few minutes to give them access through the kitchen window, while John is on the lookout. Luckily for them, it’s a nice day out and neither of the immediate neighbours is home, and they are not visible from the street.

Sherlock slips inside elegantly, but John needs three attempts to get up there, and his shoelace gets stuck, which is why he falls face first into the flat, catching his weight on his hands just so. Sherlock takes a step towards him but erupts into laughter the moment he’s sure John is fine, muffling it behind a gloved hand.

“You can’t fucking giggle.” John protests. “This is clearly a crime against my dignity.” That, of course, makes it worse, and John quickly closes the window before joining in. “What a great comeback to my detective life.” He huffs, before focusing on the flat. It’s clean, but he can see where Sherlock and Lestrade have gone through the cupboards.

The kitchen opens into a large living room that has the same white and dark wood furniture. Some of the books have been pulled out, and there is an empty cup on the glass table.

“We looked for traces of the poison but found none. My focus was not on any things that might indicate a hidden relative.” Sherlock is already focused on the pictures on the mantle.

“Should we split up? I’ll take the bathroom and bedroom.” John suggests and gets a distracted hum.

John doesn’t expect to find a body in the bathtub, but is disappointed to find it clean and empty, except for a toothbrush and a few bottles of conditioner and soap. NSY has probably checked those already. So, John goes through a stack of towels, opens the cupboard under the sink. Toilet paper, shaving cream, nothing uncommon. He stands up and checks the medicine cabinet.

“Sherlock? Can you come here?”

The detective appears in the door frame. “What did you find?”

“I think Phillip had cancer. Look at all of this.” He picks up a few of the bottles to show them to his partner, one after the other. “A late stage, if you ask me.”

“That would explain why he didn’t care that he would die with the rest of the family, if he only had weeks, or even days.

“I told him it was crazy.” The voice makes them both turn, John’s hand automatically going to the back of his trousers. He doesn’t have his gun. The woman is small, her eyes swollen red, hair in disarray, but her voice is calm. “He said he wanted the best for our son, and that his family would never accept us.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t want his money. I wanted Phillip to live. Joseph wanted his dad to live.”

Sherlock nods at her. “Did he tell you about his plans?”

She shakes her head, vehemently. “No. Always said that he’d love to just end the racist bastards, so Joseph could have a good life. I never thought he would do it. He wasn’t cruel. He was a good man.”

“Philip didn’t tell his mother or siblings about his child, as they would have never accepted a person of colour in their family, would they?” Sherlock’s voice is quiet. “And his disease kept him from working, so he was afraid that he could not provide for you and Joseph.”

The woman nods, eyes filled with tears. “They might have been arseholes, but they didn’t deserve to die, not the children. Not for Joseph. I think his pain made Phillip crazy.”

John takes a deep breath, pained by the story that is unfolding. There is no murderer to arrest, or to chase through London. There is just a grieving woman, suffering with the guilt of what her partner has done for her, and a fatherless child, who had the wrong skin colour according to his own grandmother, aunts and uncles. How cruel the world is.

“You are aware that we are not the police.” Sherlock takes off his gloves and folds them into his pocket.

“Yes, I know who you are. You are Sherlock Holmes. I read the blog.”

“Then you know, that I will have to tell this story to the police. I could forget to mention that you were informed about Phillip’s plans, though, so your son doesn’t lose his mother too. And the money, the Abbs fortune, could be well invested in the fight against cancer, once Joseph is eighteen.” The detectives walks past the woman, stops, and rest his hand on her shoulder. “Phillip loved your son very much. He thought he was doing the right thing.”

John is still in a daze as they leave the flat, the seal broken by the woman entering through the front door. The rush of adrenaline he feels after most cases is missing. Instead he is filled with sadness. Next to him, the consulting detective is awfully quiet, and John lets his hand slip into Sherlocks, squeezing it reassuringly.

“I would rather Phillip was a madman who murdered his family in a greedy rage. This is heartbreaking.” Sherlock hails a cab, but his stance is lacking the usual confidence.

“Let’s call Lestrade about this tomorrow and hold our daughter tight tonight.”

* * *

Rosie is asleep against Sherlock’s shoulder, as they take another cab to Baker Street, her small hands fisted into the wool of the coat, pink mouth hanging open. What a cruel world she is going to grow up in, a world where mothers die by their sons’ hands, where children starve, and civilians die in wars that are not their own. How lucky Rosie is, to grow up with a man who makes the world a little better every day, and who loves her dearly.

John brushes a hand over blonde curls, smiling as she makes a smacking noise. “Do you want to hold her?” Sherlock offers.

“No, she’s good where she is.” John kisses the spot he has stroked a moment before. “Safe with the world’s best detective.” He means it. Even though they got the full story served on a platter, John is so proud of his partner. He remembers their first case, remembers how ignorant Sherlock had been about Rachel, the unborn daughter of Jennifer Wilson. And now, as John looks at him, there is so much love there, for Rosie. How much time has changed them both.

“I barely did anything today, John. I didn’t even manage to find Joseph and his mother; she came to us. I missed his medication, only focused on the poison that killed the Abbs family.” Sherlock focuses his eyes on Rosie, and their hands meet on her back, as John strokes a pale wrist.

“You were good to her, Sherlock. You understood her pain and recognized her need to be with her son.”

“My sentiment for the two of you shouldn’t bleed into the work, John. It makes me vulnerable.” Sherlock spits, pulling his hand away, from John.

“You told me once, about being human, Sherlock. In a situation like this, it’s human to feel sad, to be touched. It’s forbidden love, a family murdered, a tragedy. And it will take us a while to get over that.”

“How do you deal with all those emotions?”

“Badly,” John chuckles, looking out of the window, then back at his partner. “I have a therapist.”

The taxi stops in front of 221 Baker Street and John pays the cabbie, while Sherlock carries Rosie upstairs. He finds the two of them by the window, Sherlock staring out into the night, and he wraps his arms around the detective, forehead resting against his shoulder.

“I think, any case to do with children in the future is going to be hard. As parents, that’s how we’ll feel. And we’ll worry about her constantly, thinking that we failed her. I feel that all the time.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“It is. And I can understand if you’d want out of that. I know you love her, but being a parent, that’s hard.” Honesty, that is what they promised each other, and John doesn’t want to trap Sherlock in anything he doesn’t want, even if it hurts thinking about how he could lose what they have.

“It’s not a choice I have, John. I worry, subconsciously, about anything and everything that could happen to her. I want to protect her at all costs. All I can do is consciously decide that her well-being is my responsibility – shared with you- as her parent. And I want that.”

“I want that too, with you.” John holds them tighter, feels her small body shift against the detective’s chest. “In good times and in bad.”

Their eyes meet, where they are reflected on the window in front of them. “I never wanted to make a vow again. I would vow that, to you.”

“In a heartbeat.” John smiles. “Let’s go to bed, love. We can take her with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter was posted in Bristol😊


	13. Chapter 13

**XIII**

“I took your advice.” John takes a sip of water, forcing himself to look at Ella. She smiles at him, but John can see how tired she is. He briefly wonders, after all she has to listen to, if she needs a therapist too, at the end of the day.

“That’s good, John. Communicating our wishes and expectations is important for any relationship. Can you tell me about it?”

“Well, we talked. I asked him what he wanted, how he felt about Rosie. I mean, it’s a huge responsibility, to be a parent, and I wanted him to be sure about that. And he is. I think he felt like her father, already, but wasn’t sure whether that was what I wanted for my child. I do. And I told him that, told him that I want him as her parent.”

John smiles at the memory of their walk, their talk, and all that has happened afterwards. “I think we’re on the same page, you know. We’ve known each other for such a long time, and I know all his quirks and strange behaviours, and he knows all about mine. I think we’ll make it work. I never had that feeling like I wanted to share the rest of my life with a person, only him.”

“No doubt?”

“About my partner? No, none. About myself, maybe.”

“Why?”

“He’s brilliant and sexy. A natural, when it comes to Rosie. They’re just on the same level. And then, there’s me. I have my past to deal with, my anger, my dead wife. I just think I got the better deal, being able to share my life with him, and he got a broken doctor.”

“Forgive yourself for being human, John. I’m sure your partner has,” She sits up a bit. “Why are you laughing at that?”

“He said the same thing. Told me how I was only human.”

“He’s a clever man, then. Listen to him. And don’t be afraid to be happy, John. It might be difficult, with all that has happened in your past, but that is the task I would like to give you.”

John huffs. “If I’d known there would be homework, I wouldn’t have gone to therapy.”

She allows herself a chuckle. “There always is. I’m not here to help you, but to give you the tools to help yourself.”

“I wish I could do that with my patients,” John clears his throat. “I want to take less of them anyway. Sh… my partner and I talked about it, already. I took on a lot more hours when it was just Rosie and me, in the house, so I could afford the mortgage. Now that we are back at the flat, sharing the rent, I think about taking off one day during the week, just for us. We can afford it, and it might do us good to have some time to ourselves, when the focus is usually on Rosie.”

Ella writes something down, and John forces himself not to look. “What about your sex life? Any changes there?”

“You’d scold me for changing topics.”

“Don’t deflect, John.” She smiles. “Answer that question, please.”

“I don’t want to go into too much detail, that’s only for him and me to know, and I’m sure you don’t even want to hear about that.” John feels himself blush. “But we’re on a good path, I think. We haven’t tried penetration again, but talking about what we want, and don’t want, that’s helped. I think I’m not putting as much pressure on myself, and that helps, too.”

“Have you talked to your partner, about your bisexuality?”

“No, not really. He knows I had male partners, well, one-night stands. And he’s aware of all the women I have dated. But I haven’t used that label with him. I told him that I wasn’t gay, many times, and that probably had to do with how I didn’t want him to know that I was attracted to him. It’s true, though, I’m not gay.”

“But you are having gay sex, with your current partner. How does that make you feel?”

“Bloody great,” John wants to answer. “I had a tongue up my arse for the first time, and it’s amazing. Ten out of ten, would recommend it to a friend.”

What he says instead, is tamer. “I don’t really care, honestly. My reluctance about penetration has nothing to do with his body.”

“What has it to do with, John?”

“We talked about this, the last time. I think I’m putting pressure on myself, because he’s the love of my life and I want to make him happy. And, somehow, my dead wife is still stuck in the back of my mind.”

Ella raises an eyebrow. “Then kick her out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Write her an eviction notice. She might be the mother of your child, but she is not part of your current relationship.”

* * *

John sits down on the bench, forcing his trembling fists to open. He hasn’t been here often, over the last few weeks. Rosie is still to small to understand what this place means, so he never takes her with him.

There are not many other people at this part of the graveyard at the moment, just an elderly woman a few rows down, and John enjoys the quiet for a moment, before he tries to find the right words.

“Ella told me to write a letter to you. But I suck at those, so I thought I’d come and tell you myself.” He looks down at his hands. “I loved you. I was in a dark place, and I loved you for coming into my life and saving me. And you did that. Making love to you, holding you, that was the only good thing, from the day Sherlock jumped off the roof, until the night he came back. And I know it was unfair of me to still love him more, even though I thought he was dead, for me to think of him, sometimes, as I held you.”

He brushes a tear from his cheek. “I loved you, as much as I could, and I am so thankful that you gave life to our daughter. That you loved me.”

Taking a deep breath, John gets up and walks over to the gravestone, touching the white marble. He’d made a speech like this before, talking to an empty grave, broken hearted and full of regret. “I told him I blamed him for your death. And maybe that helped me to cope, I don’t know. What I know now, is that you chose to die in that Aquarium. I don’t know why. And maybe I should be thankful for saving his life. But I grieved you, for myself and our daughter. She deserves to know her mother. That’s what makes me most angry.”

John’s hands ball into fists again, one resting at his side, one on the cool stone. If he were to analyse it, sadness would be his most prominent emotion, sadness for Rosie, who won’t even remember her mother, and for Mary’s tragic death, how he held her as she died. There is also the anger, and it flares up more and more, as he talks, burning him from the inside. It’s the anger that makes it bearable. He has learned to deal with it in therapy.

“I’m angry at myself for believing your lies, Mary. I’m angry because the world’s most clever man couldn’t save you. I’m angry because I still can’t live my life the way I want to.”

John feels a weight pull him down, something deep inside him, that makes him unable to stand anymore, and he crouches down in the wet grass beside her grave.

“For so long, I thought I couldn’t be angry at you. First, because you saved me. Then you were pregnant. After that, a new mom. Now you’re dead, and what does it help to be angry at the dead?” He rests his forehead against the marble. “But I’m angry, Mary, so very angry. And I took that out on him, because you decided you had to bloody die.”

Pain shoots through his hands, as his fists hits the cool stone, and he lets out a pained noise, not caring whether anyone can hear. He needs to let this out, after so many months of keeping it in. The soldier has learned to fight, the doctor to not complain and do his job. John knows he now needs to learn to take care of himself on an emotional level, and this is an important step. Ella is going to be so proud.

John huffs a laugh at that thought. “Do me a favour, all right? After all that went wrong between us, just help me out with this.” He forces himself to stand up with wobbly knees, not wanting to kneel and beg to force her to listen.

“You and I, we had our time. But now I need to move on. For Rosie, for Sherlock, and most importantly for myself. Get the fuck out of my head, alright?”

A part of him expects her to appear between the trees, small and beautiful, and smile her condescending smile. When he looks up, there is no one there. Well, at least the times of him imagining her are over. John takes a breath of relief.

“Get out of my head, Mary. You said it yourself. You knew, what we could become. Give us the chance to.” With one last touch to the ‘W’ in Watson, carved into the marble in gold lettering, John turns away to leave.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted from Bath😊  
> Hope you are not fed up yet😊


	14. Chapter 14

**XIV**

John never talks about his sessions with Ella, wanting to leave all that has been said at her office and not let it dampen his day. When he comes home that day, trousers wet from where he crouched, eyes red with unshed tears, Sherlock doesn’t ask or pry, just opens his arms so John can let himself fall against him. For a minute or two, John just lets himself be held. Probably the detective has already deduced everything, why John’s jeans are damp and what he said to his dead wife, but he doesn’t comment. John just feels arms around him and warm soft lips against his scalp. It’s not long before Rosie needs attention, tugging at his jacket, but it is enough for John to regain some sense of control over his emotions.

Crouching down, he pulls the little one against his chest. “Hello, my darling girl.” He kisses her cheek and Rosie grabs at his nose with chubby fingers, which makes him grin. “How was your day?”

“Dada.” She says, proud of her vocabulary, “Dog.” She points at Sherlock’s armchair, where john spots her favourite stuffed animal.

“Oh, did you and Sherlock play with that?”

She nods. “Yeth.”

“Are you hungry now? I brought food.”

She nods again, excited, and frees herself from his grip, tugging him to the kitchen a moment later. As she blabbers on, using every one of the eleven words she knows so far, ‘no’ being the most prominent, John sets the table. Sherlock brings the bags of food he had dropped in the front room.

“Are you okay?” He whispers against John’s neck, breath hot.

“I am now. Just had to get something off my chest.” He leans against the broad chest behind him for a second, before Rosie wants Sherlock to pick her up with a loud “Shl’o” which is the cutest sound John has ever heard.

As the detective is busy settling her into her highchair, John takes out his phone, presenting the screen to Sherlock a moment later.

“What is that?” Sherlock leans over the table.

“Synonyms for ‘Dad’. You could pick one.”

Only when he sees Sherlock’s surprised face, the twist of his mouth, does he realise that this is an important moment for his partner. He remembers the first time she called John ‘Dada’, the pure joy of that moment. He wants the same for Sherlock, wants all the things for him that make it so wonderful to be a parent. He wants Sherlock to be daddy, or pa, or father.

“I…” Sherlock closes his mouth again, and John remembers a conversation at just this table, when Sherlock hadn’t moved for about a minute, hadn’t blinked.

_ My best friend. _

The thought had made Sherlock freeze, over two years ago.

_ Father to my child. _

That must be a new shock, even though they have talked about it, have lived it for months.

John looks back at his thesaurus. “I think ‘old man’ is quite fitting, don’t you?” He teases, trying to lighten up the situation. He is distracted for a moment by Rosie yelling for food, and places some rice on her plate.

When Sherlock speaks, it’s quiet, and John turns to him, questioningly. “Sorry, what?”

“Papa,” Sherlock whispers. “I like Papa best.”

And then it is John’s turn to hold him, to walk around the table and wrap his arms around him. “Papa. I like that, too. Fits you.”

Looking at their daughter, who is throwing more rice than she is eating, John drops a kiss to his cheek.

“I won.” He thinks. “I get to love this man and raise our daughter. I won.”

* * *

There is noise coming from the kitchen, and for a moment, John thinks about just rolling over and sleeping for a bit longer. But then, it’s Wednesday, his favourite day of the week, the first Wednesday of many that he can just enjoy with Sherlock. The idea he had shared with Ella over a month ago had now been made reality, with John reducing his hours at the surgery, allowing him to take a day off each week. They would pick up Rosie earlier than usual, but have a few hours to themselves. Excited at the thought, John hurries to the kitchen, where his family is having breakfast.

“Morning.” He mumbles, and two curly heads look up at him. Rosie squeals a ‘dada’, her face completely smeared with…

“Is that… ice cream?” John turns to his partner with a stern look. “Why is she having ice cream for breakfast?”

“She asked for it.” Sherlock doesn’t seem to be concerned, taking another spoonful from his own bowl. His hair is sticking up all sides, and John wants to tug at it the way he did last night, as they brought each other pleasure. This is not the place for thoughts like this, and John concentrates on what is important right now.

“She asked for it? Sherlock, you are the adult here. Ice cream is not fitting for breakfast. She needs nutrients, not pure sugar.” John opens the fridge, slightly annoyed. No matter what he is going to offer his daughter now, she’ll only have the icecream anyway. And tomorrow, they will have to fight about that again, because she’ll want it every morning now, and John is going to have to hear a lot of ‘no’.

“I can’t be the bad cop all the time, Sherlock.” John gets some jam and toast for himself. “I feel like instead of sharing the responsibility for Rosie, I’m parenting the both of you.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You have done that for years, John. It couldn’t come as too much of a surprise.” He gets up to put his empty bowl into the dishwasher. “But if you think it helps, you can spank me later.”

That answer is so unexpected, John laughs out, his annoyance evaporating. “Not in front of the baby.” He smirks and Sherlock, knowing he has won this – not really -argument, returns to the table, where John gets his first kiss of the day, between giggles.

“Dada.” Rosie reaches out for him with sticky fingers. “Thjam.”

“Jam? That’s a new one.” John comments, knowing that Sherlock will write it down into his Rosie notebook later. He has collected a lot of data on the little one, for her to read when she gets older, and for them to remember later. “Should I cut the toast into pieces for you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Papa.” She looks at the detective, who immediately jumps into action. “You know, your Daddy used to cut people open, Watson. He is surely more precise with your toast,” he says nonchalantly, as he spreads the jam.

“Oi, you’re making it sound like I’m some sort of a serial killer.”

“Maybe you are, and I just haven’t caught you yet.”

“And you never will.” John takes a bite of his own breakfast, pouring himself a cuppa. Sherlock looks up at him between dark curls, grinning, before turning back to his task, Rosie controlling every movement he makes. They are a good team. Sherlock is so very patient with her, letting her tug at his hair and smear his face with ice cream as he cuts her toast. He is a great parent, probably a better one than John, and wrong breakfast choices don’t change that a bit.

“We can’t give her everything she wants, love.” John gets up to get a flannel for Sherlock. “And I know that’s difficult. I mean, look at her…” As if on cue, Rosie begins to pick up pieces of toast, opening her red mouth. It looks adorable, how she covers herself in raspberry jam.

“I want you to make your own parenting choices, Sherlock. I know that we can’t agree on everything when it comes to her. I don’t think any parents do.” He starts dabbing the wet cloth at Sherlock’s cheek. “We should be equal in this. Just because I share her genes shouldn’t mean I overrule your opinion when it comes to Rosie.” Leaning up, he kisses Sherlock tenderly.

“I trust you with her, love, and with the choices you make for her, I do. Ice cream for breakfast could never change that,” Another kiss to soft lips. “You’re her Papa.”

“PAPA.” Comes a very annoyed voice, and John chuckles. “See, she agrees.”

“Papa, thjam.”

And Papa goes and cleans the jam off her fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted from the most beautiful hotel room in Canterbury 🛀


	15. *explicit*

**XV**

John is in the kitchen, enjoying his day off. He hasn’t cooked in ages, nothing beyond pasta and beans on toast. He isn’t a particularly good cook, but he likes experimenting from time to time. Sherlock particularly likes the thing with the peas, so John will attempt to duplicate it today. He has the radio on, and is singing along as well as he can, when Billy Squier’s ‘My kinda lover’ comes on. He’d danced to that song as a boy in his parent’s front room almost forty years ago, and with a quick glance to Sherlock, who seems focused on a chemistry magazine, begins swaying his hips to the beat.

“You put the magic in me. I feel the magic when we do what we do. And oh, I can't do without you for too long. You're my situation,” He sings, quickly turning from the kitchen table to the counter to check on the pasta. “You're my kinda lover, my kinda lo…”

The buzz of pleasure makes his knees buckle and John curses, as his cock rapidly swells in his jeans. He shouldn’t be surprised. He was the one who prepared himself, after all, under the shower, and who slipped his little friend in, presenting Sherlock with the remote control when he returned from dropping off Rosie at the nursery. That had been two hours ago, and John had just forgotten about it for a moment, an opportunity Sherlock had used.

“Holy shit.” John moans, as the toy buzzes, then pauses, then buzzes again, and he needs to hold onto a chair. His body is shuddering, going from one to a hundred within less than a minute. Having no control over the patterns and intensity, that is a totally new experience. Unpredictability, when before, he had been the one to choose what he wanted to feel.

He manages a few steps, so he can see the detective at the desk, seemingly ignoring John, when John knows all his senses are focused on him. But two can play that game. Taking a deep breath, John turns back to his cooking, adding a little salt to the peas in the small pot, biting back any reaction as the vibration changes its pattern, then grows more intense.

His cock is fully hard in his jeans, pushing against the dense fabric, and all John wants to do is squeeze it and give himself some relief. That would mean Sherlock won their little game, and John is not willing to let that happen just yet. Taking a pan, he mixes all the vegetables together, adding a bit of oregano and basil.

“You got my motor racin', I find my thoughts embracin' your every move,” He sings, loud enough so Sherlock can surely hear him from the living room. “I wanna set you reelin', I wanna make you feel the way that I do.”

And John wants that. He wants Sherlock to experience what it is like to have his prostate and perineum stimulated at the same time, how that compares to have molten gold pouring through his veins. His hands close around the pan handle harder than necessary, as another button is pressed. Two buzzes, then a pause, driving John insane. He’s so aroused, all he wants to do is get on the bed on his hands and knees, and beg Sherlock to fuck him. They aren’t ready for that yet. For a month, they have included anal play into almost every sexual experience, and John has loved all of it, has loved Sherlock’s fingers and tongue and the occasional plug, but full penetration, that’s not been an option yet. And John is okay with that. Slow is amazing. He’s getting to know his own body, and Sherlock’s, on a much deeper level than he thought possible, and having his little friend buzz inside him is just another step on the way to what they ultimately want. It’s a tease, and at the same time it’s a learning process. It’s getting to know what it’s like to give up control and hand it over to his partner.

John bites back a moan, not daring to look at Sherlock, or he might lose it and just come at the sight of his beautiful partner. How did he get so lucky?

There is a quick rap at the kitchen door, paralleled with a heightened intensity against his prostate, and his spoon clatters loudly to the floor. He can see Sherlock grin widely before the detective calls their guest in.

DI Hopkins is dressed in a smart suit and she greets him cordially, and no matter how much John likes her, he just wants her to piss off and leave them alone. He knows how he must look, hair in disarray, cheeks flushed. The only advantage he has is the kitchen table blocking her view. He just hopes that the music is loud enough to cover the noise coming from his pants.

“Ahm, hi.” He tries a friendly smile.

“Ah, DI Hopkins.” Sherlock calls from the front room and John can hear him getting closer. “I’ve been waiting for those files.” The detective appears in the kitchen and she hands him a stack of green folders.

“Yeah, sorry, traffic is especially horrid today.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Holmes. I tried figuring it out on my own, but I think we need your brain on it.”

“I agree.” Sherlock opens the first file. “John, you dropped something.” He gestures towards the floor absently, and John wants to throttle him. He knows what will happen if he bends down.

“That smells lovely, Doctor Watson” Hopkins comments, in an attempt to make small talk. “What are you cooking?”

“Oh, just improvising.” John leans all his weight onto his left foot to take some of the pressure off his prostate, which is a little bit of a relief. “I don’t cook much, but today’s my day off.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. Not much time with the job and the kids. But my wife’s a fantastic cook, so I got nothing to complain about.”

John should be polite and ask about her kids, but there is not much room for thought in his mind. He considers excusing himself and going to the bathroom, but that would mean Sherlock won, so he puts on a brave face and carries on. With a quick look at Sherlock, he slowly bends down to pick up his spoon, a new wave of arousal hitting him, as his little friend is pressed against his sweet spot even more tightly. Holy fucking hell.

Luckily, Hopkins turns to the detective. “Anything you can tell me from this?” She points at the file in his hands.

“Not yet. I will call you when there is a clue.” Sherlock comments briskly, turning to the living room without a word of goodbye.

“Alright.” Hopkins smiles, and turns to the door. “I’ll see you, Doctor Watson. Enjoy your day off.”

He waves at her. “Ta, Detective Inspector. See you.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, John takes a deep breath, stopping his hand halfway to his crotch. There’s a damp spot at the front already, and he knows this might go from pleasure to pain if he doesn’t do anything about it soon. In a moment of clarity, John turns off the stove, then slowly walks towards Sherlock. 

“You invited her?” John stands in the middle of the room, the buzzing driving him slowly mad.

“I needed the files.”

“But you knew… she could have seen…”

Sherlock is in front of him in a heartbeat, eyes dark with lust, and John can barely stand on his feet anymore, needs to grab at Sherlock’s arms to hold himself upright. A moment later, his hand is enveloped into a larger one, as the detective presses it against his erection. “This, John Watson…” Sherlock drags his mouth up John’s jaw to his ear. “…is what your self-control does to me.” His voice is liquid lust, and John moans deeply.

“Sherlock. Please.” He begs, and is manhandled against the desk a moment later, Sherlock flush against him. As much as he has enjoyed their game, finally touching Sherlock is even better. And John wants access to all of him. They reach out at the same time, fumbling at each other’s flies, their mouths in caught in a searing kiss that John moans into, as his cock is finally relieved of the pressure, one button after the other popping open.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John wraps his arms around the detective’s middle. “So beautiful.” He is treated to a shy smile, which is a stark contrast to the lust-filled eyes, and John lets it melt against his lips, licking into that wet mouth.

Long fingers drag down his pants, just as much as necessary to pull out his erection, and John shivers at the touch. He is overly sensitive, the toy still stimulating his prostate and buzzing against his perineum, and he can’t remember ever being so hard when his cock hasn’t even been touched properly.

“Yours next.” John orders, already pulling down the black boxer briefs and freeing the long, pink, pretty cock. He really wants to suck it, let it slide down his throat, but he is too close to the edge to do anything properly.

Luckily, Sherlock still has a few more brain cells left. “Sit up on the desk, John.” He whispers against his ear, and John does, with the detective’s help. His jeans get pulled further down and off, so John can open his legs for him. Their kiss is desperate, hands clutching at each other, tugging at the fabric of their shirts to pull them off, giving more access to naked skin.

When Sherlock presses their cocks together between them, his large hand building the perfect ring for them to fuck into, John’s hips buck forward.

“God, yes,” John moans. “I’m so close. So close, darling.”

He rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, giving himself fully to the feeling of the rhythm Sherlock chooses, and the stimulation to that wonderful spot inside him. His balls tighten and draw up as orgasm approaches, and he clutches at Sherlock’s shoulders.

He’s falling, sinking into deep waters, and then he’s breaching the surface, gasping for air. And then he takes a breath, and Sherlock is there to hold him above the water.

John comes in hot spurts, his nose buried against the detective’s neck, shouting his name, as his partner follows him to the peak, arms tightening around the doctor. “You are so very beautiful, John, when you let yourself go. And idiot that I am, I could not be more attracted to you.”

John lifts his head and looks into pale eyes, so tender, and he tucks Sherlock against him for a kiss. The detective reaches out to shut off the toy, just as John begins to feel uncomfortable. “You might be an idiot,” John mumbles against a perfect cheekbone. “But you are my idiot.”

“That has to be my favourite endearment so far, the most fitting.” Sherlock has his eyes closed, and the hand that is not sticky with their drying cum strokes through John’s hair. John can feel the smile against his forehead.

“I’ve been using it since early on.” John chuckles, kissing his way to his mouth. “And you thought I was being mean.”

“You are. You’ve been a grumpy old man all your life.”

“Such a flirt, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh yes, that I am.” Sherlock takes a step back. “Now, let’s get cleaned up. We have a case to solve, Doctor Watson.”

John grins, and lets himself be steered to the bathroom. “Thank God,” John thinks. “for Wednesdays.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted from Dover 😊  
> Regular Thursday/Sunday posts from now on


	16. *explicit*

**XVI.**

For a while, John thought he might plan a date, light candles in the bedroom, and maybe draw them a bath. But then, maybe that would put pressure on them, again. He wanted to think about it later, when they had the time. But then, they can’t find DI Hopkins’ jewelry thief before Rosie needs to be picked up from the nursery, so John spends some alone time with his daughter, only to be ordered to Lambeth Underground station via text, just after Rosie falls asleep. Mrs. Hudson offers to take the baby monitor down to her flat. Usually Rosie sleeps through the night anyway, but leaving her alone, of course, isn’t an option.

They get to chase the thief- the upstairs neighbour- up to the London Eye and along the Thames. Sherlock almost falls over an elderly gentleman who doesn’t get out of the way quick enough, so it is John who catches the suspect’s jacket, tackling the much larger man and sitting on his back, until Sherlock and Hopkins catch up. It’s a good feeling, to be an active part of a case again, to be needed like this, and when they get back, adrenaline racing through his body, John traps Sherlock against the wall in the foyer.

That pale neck just asks to be kissed and sucked at, and he drags his tongue up and over the adams apple to reach the waiting mouth. It’s a dance, the choreography leading them along the hallway and up the stairs, where they tango for a while, bodies flush against each other, tugging at each other’s clothes and leaving a trail, from the door through the kitchen and down the hallway, where John finds his back pressed to the wall.

Sherlock’s lips are on him in a heartbeat, consuming every inch of naked skin he can reach, until John’s chest is flushed red and showing a few temporary teeth marks. John has never been wanted like this, of that he is sure, and Sherlock’s urgency sends sparks right down to his groin, where his cock stands proudly. After their encounter in the morning, John had almost expected to need a few days of rest. Apparently not.

He pulls Sherlock up for a kiss, greedily sucking his tongue into his mouth, his hips seeking friction against the detective’s body, finding his answering erection, still trapped in his boxer briefs. John groans in frustration, hands scrambling to tug it free. He pulls at it, dragging his palm over the wet head.

“Hmm, John,” Sherlock’s voice is honey, trickling down his throat, deep and almost predatory. “I almost forgot how sexy you are, bringing down the bad guys.”

His hands skim down John’s sides until they rest on the backs of his thighs. “I wanted to bring you to orgasm right there and then, on the Queen’s walk, in front of everybody. You looked so very handsome.” John feels himself blush, looking down at the detective’s collar bone instead. “You wake those animal instincts in me. I wanted to show them that you belong to me, and that they have no right to even look at you.”

John’s feet lose their connection to the floor as he is lifted up, Sherlock holding his whole weight, and god, that is sexy. They are fully naked now, except for their socks, John’s legs and arms wrapped around the detective, cocks brushing as they slowly rock their bodies. “Can you imagine their faces, if I pulled down your trousers and sucked you off, right there?”

John wants to answer, say something sassy and flirty back, but all he can do is moan as a hot mouth travels over his neck and jaw, sucking the tender skin. He belongs to this man fully, body and soul, and he needs to be claimed, marked.

“Sherlock…” He begs. “Sherlock, I might still be open a little from earlier.”

The detective’s eyes open, dark with lust, seemingly scanning every minimal movement in his expression, large hands spreading over his arse. “What do you need, John?”

It is the tenderness in his eyes at that moment, the care that shines through the lust and greed, that makes John very sure of what he says next.

“I want you to put those gorgeous long fingers inside me and spread me open for your cock.” And he doesn’t really care if the first time he gets penetrated is against the wall, if only it happens now, and it is Sherlock doing the fucking. He’s been preparing for this for over a month, has accepted that taking it slow is the best way to approach penetrative sex. Now, he feels more than ready, craves feeling his partner inside him for the first time.

Sherlock’s expression shifts, the lust deepening, before there is a flash of worry. “Are you sure?” He asks, and John answers with a nod. “Oh god, yes.”

Sherlock moves so quickly, John barely manages to hold on, as he is carried to the bedroom, where the detective collapses on top of him. They kiss more tenderly than they have before, as if their mouths want to prove that tonight is about making love, about holding each other. As their kisses die down, John turns to grab the lube from the bedside drawer. He places it in in Sherlock’s palm.

They have done this before, Sherlock spreading him open, sometimes leaving it at fingers, other times adding one of the plugs John has bought. Still, Sherlock looks unsure now, his cheeks painted an adorable pink, and John turns them, over so he is on top.

“I can’t fuckin’ wait to feel you, Sherlock. I want you so bad.” He whispers, his hand wrapping around Sherlock’s cock, stroking it slowly. “I want you, and it’s not going to be perfect, love. It’s going to be the way we need it, though.” It may be ironic that he is the one saying that, when in the past he has held himself to such a high standard of perfection, but his words seem to help. Sherlock is bucking into his fist, head thrown back and eyes closed, accepting kisses to his shoulders and chest.

“Please, darling. I need to feel you.” And the begging does it for Sherlock, John knows. Opening his eyes, Sherlock swats at John’s hip, so he sits up a bit. A moment later, the tip of his index finger brushes against John’s hole as Sherlock reaches between his thighs.

They both moan, and John reaches for the bottle, quickly lubing up two fingers, before the detective returns to teasing him with small touches. John’s thighs are quivering, and he has to close his eyes for a moment, because seeing Sherlock concentrated on what he is doing, beats of sweat on his forehead, is almost too much.

His body is buzzing with adrenaline, his cock standing at a right angle from his body. As Sherlock rubs circles against his ring muscle, John bears down against the touch, desperate to feel more. Sherlock’s index finger dips in, pulls out, and returns. It is not nearly enough.

“Sherlock, if you don’t get your fingers in me right now, I swear, I’m going to…”

The detective looks up at him, smirking. “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t know yet.” John admits. “But it’s going to be horrible.”

They both giggle, and John leans down to kiss him, their cocks trapped between them, rubbing against each other, and their giggles subside and turn into moans. By the time they come up for air, there are two fingers pressed deep inside him. Rocking back against the delicious stretch, John nips and licks at his partner’s chest, sucking at a pink nipple.

“More.” John whispers, “I can take one more.”

He knows it must be slightly uncomfortable, how Sherlock has to crook his fingers to open him up, but there is no way in hell John is going to change it now, not when he has the control of how deep the digits slip into him. He watches Sherlock reach for the lube, feels it cool on his skin, and another finger breaches him. For a moment, neither of them moves, as John gets used to the slight burn, his face pressed against the detective’s chest. Sherlock smells of musk, and man, and Sherlock, and John rubs his nose against him, until all he can smell is the man he loves. He smears kisses over the pale skin, tasting the salt of his sweat, and it is like a drug.

The first thrust back is almost too much, Sherlock’s fingers gliding deep into him, opening him up. There will be something much bigger to replace them, and John bites his lip in anticipation. The delicious friction against his erection, just a tease, makes his thighs tremble.

“You’re quiet.” He whispers, brushing a kiss against the hand that is not currently busy elsewhere, the palm soft against his cheek. “The things those fingers can do,” John muses. The things they are currently doing, scissoring to spread John further.

Those silvergreenblue eyes look up at him thoughtfully, nose scrunched up a bit, and John wants to kiss the lines between his eyebrows, if he could only reach them. Instead, his lips follow up the detective’s finger to his first knuckle, kissing the soft skin.

“It happens so rarely, that I see and observe, and still can’t believe.” Sherlock frees his hand from John’s grip to cup John’s cheek, and the doctor leans into it.

“Believe what?”

“That John Watson is in my bed – our bed – wanting to be fucked.” The profanity is still new to those lips, having rarely been uttered, which makes it even more sexy. But that thought is only at the back of his mind. Instead, what he focuses on is the tenderness of the other words.

“You’ll have to get used to it, love.” John leans forward to kiss his man, not caring that Sherlock’s fingers slip out of him. “Because you’re not getting rid off me ever again.”

“Likewise.” Sherlock whispers, wrapping his arms around the doctor, turning them so John is pressed into the mattress. Soft kisses brush over his brows, following the hairline and down, until they rest against his ear. “I need you to be sure about this.”

And by god, John is sure. Yes, he is afraid of what his brain might come up with, if it might react the way it had when they last tried penetration, but he pushes it back, concentrating on how comfortable he is feeling with Sherlock, how much he trusts him. They are closer now than they were two months ago, more in love. Therapy, conversations, and getting to know each other’s bodies, all of that has led to this moment. John isn’t a changed man, the best version of himself. But he has learned things about himself, about his emotions and his body. And that body is telling him that it wants to be taken apart and put back together by the man he loves, right now.

“More than sure, Sherlock. I want you.” John turns his head, brushing back a dark curl. “I love you.”

“And I you, John.” Sherlock sits up a bit. “I want to make this good for you.”

“I know you will.” John’s conviction bleeds into the tone of his voice as he turns to grab a condom from the nightstand, opening the foil. Wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s erection, he slips it on. “We’ll figure it out together, yeah? Like we always do.”

“Yes.” Sherlock nods, still seeming a bit reluctant. “I just never…”

“I know, darling. Me either. But we’ve been great so far, haven’t we? Brilliant, even. And if we don’t like it, for some reason, then we’ll just go back to doing what we’ve done before, yeah?”

A shy smile flits over his lips as the detective leans down for a kiss, and John’s eyes fall shut. He hears the cap of the lube bottle opening, then closing, hears Sherlock taking a breath between clenched teeth as the detective closes his hand around his erection to slick it. With his next heartbeat, he feels the head of Sherlock’s cock press against his opening.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted from my bed back in germany


	17. *explicit*

**XVII**

John has never been a poet, and the only love letters he has ever written were meant to be blog posts about a genius mind. What they are doing right now is poetry.

Inch by inch, Sherlock is sliding into him, and there is no denying the initial pain, the burn of the stretch, but they take their time, stopping whenever it threatens to get too much. Slow, wonderfully slow, they connect their bodies, hands intertwined on the cushion, brows pressed together. Hot breaths mingle, but they don’t kiss, too focused on where Sherlock is sinking into John.

And maybe it is the burn that keeps John grounded, that doesn’t allow for him to drift off into a place in his mind that he does not control, maybe it is the weight of Sherlock on top of him, probably a mixture of both.

It takes a moment to realise it, when Sherlock is fully seated in him, unmoving, patient. “John.” He whispers against his lips. “John, is this okay? Are you…?”

“I’m fine,” John breathes, closing the distance between their mouths. “Just give me a moment. I need to … it’s a bigger stretch than I’m used to.” He huffs a laugh, but it is a nervous one.

“I should take that as a compliment.” Sherlock smiles back, his lips just millimetres away, and it is that sassy comment that loosens the tension a bit, giving John the chance to relax.

“Kiss me, please.” He asks, but is the one to smash their mouths together. It is a wonderful distraction, warm and wet, that clever tongue against his own. John is safe, in that embrace, against this mouth. Feeling brave, he wraps his legs around Sherlock’s hips.

“You can move, love. Please…” He cups the detective’s face in his hand. “Move.”

There is no more hesitation in Sherlock’s eyes, pale irises only reflecting love and lust, as he slowly pulls back, only to snap his hips forward a moment later. With every thrust, he gains confidence, his embrace tightening in a possessive gesture around John’s shoulders. And oh, John loves it, loves how Sherlock is letting go, taking control, taking what he needs. He loves the drag of the cock inside him, warm and firm, his own brushing against Sherlock’s belly from time to time, now fully erect again, as the pain subsides, giving way to pure pleasure.

He hears himself moan, hears Sherlock’s quick breaths, as the detective presses their foreheads together. “John. Oh, John, I’m inside you. I can’t believe… I…” Sherlock is blabbering, and John isn’t really hearing anything, anyway, because yes, Sherlock is inside him, finally, and he loves it, the push and pull, the kisses to his neck.

“Sherlock?” He turns his head, nose brushing through sweaty curls. “I think, oh fuck, I think, if I get my legs higher, you could… god, yes.”

“Oh.” Sherlock lifts his head, lifting his weight from his elbows to his hands, as he looks down at John. “Your prostate.”

John giggles, finding clearer words as Sherlock stops moving for a moment. “Yeah, exactly. You’ll be hitting it with that lovely cock of yours. Fuck, love, I want that. I want you so much.”

The detective nods, pulling back and out of him, and John immediately misses the feeling of being filled by him. “John, before we…” Sherlock clears his throat. “Do you like it? Am I… good for you?”

It’s not fishing for compliments, an ego boost, John knows that. It is real concern, and he reaches up to put everything he feels and thinks into a kiss, slow and deep, and neither of them pull back until their lungs gasp for air. “You’re brilliant, love.” He whispers,

The detective kneels in front of him, his hands wrapped around John’s ankles. The doctor lifts his legs, and Sherlock helps to pull them up and onto his shoulders. Their eyes meet, and John licks his lips.

“Please, Sherlock.” He reaches out for his partner. And Sherlock doesn’t disappoint, slowly guiding himself back into John’s waiting body, his hole greedily sucking him in.

“Fuck.” John moans.

“John.” Sherlock groans, at the same moment, hips taking up a slow rhythm, tilting and probing, until … there…

“Oh, Jesus holy…” Sparks are shooting up John’s spine and straight into his cock, as the head of Sherlock’s erection brushes his prostate. “...fucking Christ.” It seems to be the reaction the detective was waiting for, because he repeated the action, again, and again, hips snapping into him faster, and John forces his eyes open so he can see the beauty of Sherlock Holmes, fully lost in what he is doing.

It is like John is a case, Sherlock giving all he has to solve him, this beautiful brain fully dedicated to their shared lust, the strong body moving, chasing that wonderful spot within John. Pale eyes open, and they see, observe, deduce, and John is thankful, because how could he find the words to express all that he is feeling?

Suddenly, John is fighting tears. They burn in his eyes, and he reaches out, pulling Sherlock down to him, bending himself in half. And god, that lodges Sherlock’s cock in just the perfect spot.

“John?” Sherlock’s fingers brush through his hair, then over his cheek.

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much.” The words burst out of him, and now the tears are running down his face, hot and salty. He should feel embarrassed, but between all the emotions flooding his body, there is no space for that. His body is buzzing with arousal, his heart filled with love and gratitude for his man who is taking such good care of him, making love to him. And John is overwhelmed, in a good way.

“Sorry, I’m being stupid.” John brushes away his tears, and tries to smile up at his partner, who seems a little unsure of what to do. “This is just …a lot. Good. Brilliant. Sorry, I…” John shakes his head.

Warm lips press against the corner of his mouth. “I love you too, John. You feel so good around me, so tight, I can barely stand it.” Sherlock pulls back an inch or two, before sliding back in. “I don’t think I can hold on for long.”

“Me neither.” John tries to reassure. They can work on their stamina later. There is nothing they need to prove to each other right now. Grinning up at him, he reaches into Sherlock’s hair. “I’m too old to hold this position for long, anyway.”

Humour, a shared giggle, that’s what always helps them to open up, to calm down, but this time, John can feel the detective’s laughter vibrate inside his body, and he throws back his head.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Please, fuck me.”

And Sherlock does. With a kiss, he begins to thrust into John in earnest, alternating slow and quick movements of his hips, driving John insane with his unpredictability.

His balls are slapping against John’s bum, and the bed is squealing beneath them, the headboard hitting the wall. John wonders, for a brief moment, if Mrs. Hudson is already regretting giving him that piece of advice the other day. Sherlock is not shying away from expressing his lust, moaning and grunting, stretching John’s name into a loud ‘Jaaaaawwn’. They have to be John’s new favourite sounds, and he holds on to the sheets even tighter. Poetry, falling from cupid bow lips.

Ducking his head, John looks down to where they are connected, watches as the pretty, pale cock disappears into his body over and over again. He grabs at his own erection, neglected until now, putting pressure on the base and the scrotum, already pulled up tightly, and letting the head brush against his forearm with every of Sherlock’s thrusts. He pulls at himself, squeezes, relieving some of the tension.

“Are you close, John?” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse, a whisper barely more than a gush of hot breath against John’s cheek, and the doctor raises his head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“So close, love.” He moans. “So fucking close.”

Sherlock shifts his weight, pressing the balls of his feet into the mattress for leverage, John’s legs falling from his shoulders and wrapping around his middle, crossing over his back, as his thrusts grow faster, chasing his own orgasm, wild with lust, and god, John loves that animal side of him.Nothing left of the posh boy now.

His hand gets pushed away, as long fingers wrap around his cock, and with a few fast strokes, John is pulled over the edge, cum hitting his belly and chest, as stars flicker behind his eyes. He hears Sherlock’s grunt of pleasure, feels him hot inside him, as the detective collapses on top of him, sweaty bodies clinging to each other as they catch their breath.

* * *

Sherlock is wonderful, sensing that John feels vulnerable now, as the lust slowly subsides. He gets a warm flannel to clean him up, then holds him in a tight embrace.

“So beautiful, John. You looked so beautiful in my arms, under me.” Sherlock brushes his palm over John’s sweaty forehead and through his hair, and the doctor just pulls him tighter, not capable of words just yet, his brain still trying to catch up with what just happened. They had needed no plan, no date, had found each other in the heat of the moment, giving John the chance to just shut out the doubt and give himself to Sherlock fully. Never has he opened himself like this to a partner, not only his body, but his soul, and Sherlock has proven himself worthy of that trust with every touch, every word. 

“You’re my best friend.” He mumbles into Sherlock’s chest, and it’s not what he wanted to say, not really. It’s true, though. Ever since he met the consulting detective at Barts Hospital, no one has ever been more important, and now the only person that he could ever love this much is their daughter. His best friend. The love of his life. He’s lucky that those are the same person to him.

He feels Sherlock smile into his hair. “It was a shock, the first time you told me that. I never expected I would be your friend again, after what I had done to you.”

The smile disappears, and John presses his eyes shut at the image that appears, those curls wet with blood against the pavement, forcing it away. “I’m so grateful that you trust me, again. I doubt I deserve it, but I’m egotistical enough to take it, anyway.”

John lifts his head to kiss him, deeply. “You’re the best man I know, Sherlock Holmes, and I don’t deserve you either. We’re even, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, swallowing down a comment. They could have this conversation so many times, and just turn in circles, and they are both too comfortable, too content within their bodies and with each other, to let their past bleed into this moment of happiness. Instead, he changes the topic.

“Was it how you expected it to be?”

John nods, then shakes his head. “I don’t know, love. It was different from the toys. Knowing that it was you, feeling you warm inside me… I don’t know what I expected, but it was better.” He places his hand on Sherlock’s chest, feeling his heartbeat, which is slowing back to normal.

“You know, I don’t want this to just be what we do until I manage penetration, Sherlock. You inside me, that’s not second best, or a prelude. Tonight, this…” He strokes down Sherlock’s arm. “Tonight, was wonderful, and I … I want to do this again, darling. And if it’s all we do, for the rest of our life, then I’ll be very happy about that.”

He feels Sherlock shift beneath him. “I don’t think I can, John. I enjoyed this very much, and I want to do it again, too. And I don’t want to put any pressure on you, especially not now.” He takes a breath. “But in my fantasies, from before we were a couple, you have always been the penetrating partner. You, inside me, that is something I want to experience very much. And I’m patient, John. I can wait for however long it takes, even if it’s only once. But I need to feel you.”

John catches him looking away, and carefully places a hand on his chin, guiding him, until they are eye to eye. “Slow, we’ll do it slow.” He kisses Sherlock’s frown. “I know it’s been all about me, about my needs, and that you’ve been holding back. No more, okay? Tell me, what you want, how I need to touch you. And I can’t promise you that it will work, tomorrow, or next month.”

“I don’t need a fixed date, John. I just… I want you. I’ve wanted you for years.”

“And you’ll have me. You do have me. We’ll figure it out together.”

“Together.” Sherlock nods, closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, what do you think?


	18. Chapter 18

**XVIII**

John wakes up to the sound of Rosie crying upstairs. The thoughts of last night- well, a few hours before- flood his mind, and he turns his head to find his partner sharing his pillow. They have shifted in their sleep, John being the little spoon.

“He could,” John thinks. “Just slip into me, right now, and fuck me slowly. We’d both be half asleep, still, and we’d moan and sigh, and…”

Rosie cries again, and the erection that had been forming shrivels down into nothing. With a sigh of regret, he kisses Sherlock’s shoulder before slipping out of bed into a pair of boxers and an old shirt, and climbs the stairs. He finds Mrs. Hudson leaning over the crib, cooing at the little one.

“Hello, ladies.” John whispers, and is met with a kind smile from one, a sob from the other. He picks up his daughter, holding her snugly to his chest. She is still so small, fits perfectly in his arms, and John takes in her smell. “Oh, darling. You’re alright. I’m here.” John begins to rock her, pacing the small room, as she whimpers and pulls at his shirt with her tiny fists.

“Did she wake you?” Smiling apologetically, John turns to their landlady, wrapped up a purple dressing gown, her hair in disarray. John has never seen her in anything but an immaculate state, and she looks tired, older than ever before.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. I didn’t sleep anyway.” Her face is soft, but her eyes have that spark of sass in them that he loves so much. It takes a moment before John realises what she has just said.

“Oh. God,” He feels himself blush. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t plan on…” Interrupting himself, he focuses on his daughter, just so he doesn’t have to look at her.

“Oh John, Sherlock Holmes has lived in this house long enough. I have been kept awake by much worse, believe me.” She walks up to him and pats his arm, before stroking a curl from Rosie’s face. The little one is already half asleep again, clutching the fabric of John’s shirt.

“And I’m happy to know you took the advice of an old woman. We know things, us elderly ones. Life experience.” She cups his face in a motherly gesture. “It’s good to see my boys happy. You deserve it. And you can ask me anytime, if you need someone to watch little Miss Rosamund. Children keep us young, and god knows I need that.” 

With that, and a small wave, she walks to the door, where she turns one last time. “And I’m forwarding the bill for the noise-cancelling headphones to you, if you don’t mind.” A wink, and she disappears down the stairs.

For a while, he stares at the spot where she was standing, grinning at the ridiculousness of the situation. The things she has gone through, with them. Sherlock shooting guns in the middle of the night, experiments gone wrong, a faked suicide. Just a few months ago the upstairs flat had still been in ruins. She had taken all of that well, had supported them with kind words, hugs, and most often, tea and biscuits. She loved them like sons, Rosie like a grandmother, and John has no way to give anything back for all she does for them.

He kisses the top of Rosie’s blond curls. “You, my love, are going to grow up with some of the most amazing people.” 

Family had always been difficult for him. His parents had split up when John was nine, Harry fourteen, and their father had worked too much to really be able to take care of his kids alone. Harry had done her best, making sure John ate and went to school, sleeping in his bed when he missed their mother too much. It had been a combination of too much responsibility, a broken heart, and their father’s rage of finding out she was a lesbian, that brought her to the bottle at only nineteen. John hasn’t spoken to his parents in decades, and his sister has not answered any of his texts since he got married. Looking down at his daughter, he knows that the family he has built for himself, here in Baker Street, is all he needs.

“We’re lucky, you and I.”

She doesn’t answer, already back asleep. And John holds her for a little longer, unable to go back to bed himself. He rocks her, and paces the room, and thinks about the man downstairs, the wonderful things they are going to share, and the family he can call his own.

John Watson might be a broken man, but he is also a lucky one.

* * *

A few days later, John comes to bed to find Sherlock already under the duvet, his phone on his lap. He smiles at the familiar sight and quickly goes to the bathroom, where he gets ready. He switches on the light on his side of the bed and grabs the thriller he has been reading. Getting comfortable at Sherlock’s side, he enjoys the pleasure only a book can bring.

For a while, the tapping of Sherlock’s fingers against the screen and the flipping of the page are the only sounds. It’s the detective who breaks the silence, getting out of bed and kneeling on the floor.

“What are you doing?” John asks, looking over the novel and down at his partner.

“I have been wanting to show you something, but there has not been an appropriate time.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled, and when he reappears, he places a black box on his pillow.

“What’s that?” John has never seen this box, not even when they moved the doctor’s belongings into their now shared room.

“These, John, are my toys.” Sherlock doesn’t blush or seem embarrassed. “We talked about what I want, how I want to be touched, and in this box, you can find the toys I used before our relationship had any sexual aspects.”

John raises a questioning eyebrow, and when Sherlock nods, he puts away the book and carefully opens the lid. Where John is the owner of three different sized, but in general small plugs, plus his little vibrating friend, Sherlock is already an expert on anal toys. As he rummages through the contents, John counts four vibrating toys in different shapes, anal beads, plugs similar to the ones he has, and three dildos. He grabs the largest of those, flesh coloured with a tasteful mushroom shaped head.

“That’s,” He swallows. “Quite a size.”

Sherlock sits back up on the bed, his finger gliding up the toy. “I could only estimate when it came to your penis in its fully erect state, and I must say, I was quite accurate. I used it a lot, when not having you with me seemed unbearable, imagining it was you.”

Images of Sherlock stretched around the substantial shaft in his hands, riding it on this very bed, send sparks of lust directly to the doctor’s groin. He’d be fully naked, red blotches on his pale chest and neck, pink cock jutting up with every thrust, the pretty head wet with precum.

John licks his lips, holding back a moan. Instead of the toy, it could be him, fucking into that tight hole. John shakes off the image. There are more important things to focus on right now, more important conversations to be had. And Sherlock is really taking their promise of openness as gospel, and John likes that, even as he still gets used to having a partner communicate his needs this openly.

“I didn’t know,” John clears his throat. “That you did that. I didn’t even think you’d masturbated a lot. I thought, with all that talk about being married to your work, you might be asexual.” He grins, looking down at the cock in his hand. “I know better now, of course. Still, I didn’t think you’d have a treasure chest under our bed.”

“I didn’t masturbate regularly, John. But sometimes, I just wanted… and nothing was really ever good enough. I grew bored, after the third or fourth use.” He takes the dildo from John, placing it back in the box, closing the lid. “I just wanted to show you this, because I want you to believe me when I say that for me, the thought of being the penetrative partner has never really crossed my mind. I always thought, as a man who dated mostly women, that would be your role. And now I really want to know the real thing, what you feel like.”

John leans over to kiss him. “I’ll get my brain together, all right? I want to be able to give this to you, to be with you in that way.”

Sherlock nods slowly, brushing their noses together.

“Do you like it, though? I mean, everything we’ve done so far?” He takes the detective’s right hand in both of his.

“I like it very much.” Sherlock emphasises what he says with a nod and a kiss. “As I told you, in the bath, I was unsure if I could give you what you needed. It seemed a huge responsibility, to be the one introducing a completely new part of your sexuality to you.”

John feels a pang of guilt, realising that over the past days, his focus has been completely on his own body, even as they talked, shared their thoughts.

“Being with you is amazing, John, and I have been able to just do it and not think about what it means, or where it leads. I think your thought process has been much the same.”

John nods. “Yeah, I can just let myself be with you, not think too much.”

“I don’t want to change that. I don’t want to go from what we have now, to you suddenly feeling like you have to use toys on me all the time. I don’t particularly like them.”

He is right, of course. They have not just worked up to last Wednesday and crossed it off the list, and now have a new goal to reach. Each encounter between them should happen because they want each other, want to be together.

“But you’ll tell me, if there is something you want, or don’t want?”

“Of course, John. That would be totally out of character if I didn’t, don’t you agree?” The detective grins, and so does John.

“I think we are on a good path, you know. We’re getting better at you and me.”

“I agree.” Sherlock moves back an inch or two, to look at him. “And right now, I want to suck your cock. There, I’m telling you what I want.”

A sound that is half giggle, half moan, escapes John’s throat, and he lets himself sink into the mattress. “Well, then, Mr. Holmes, do your worst.”


	19. Chapter 19

**XIX**

Rosie is crying, her face wet with tears, and John thinks that one of the neighbours might call the police soon, suspecting that a child has been kidnapped. It had all started well. Rosie had had her daily bath, and John had changed her into pyjamas before settling her into bed. During their goodnight story, she had suddenly asked for her Papa, and when John had told her that Sherlock was working, she had started wailing.

That had been an hour ago, and she is still crying, calling for her papa, little fists hitting against John’s chest when he tries to calm her. She sounds so hurt, and her eyes are red with tears and the fatigue she is desperately fighting. They had nights like this before, when she was teething and during her first cold, and it made – still makes – John feel helpless. He has tried everything, from her favourite toy, to the promise of another story, to ice cream as a last resort. No chance. She wants Sherlock, and there is no sign of the exhaustion winning over her anytime soon. She wants Sherlock, and John is exhausted. Tonight, he is not enough for her, and that makes him feel like shit. And maybe his own bad mood, created by her upset, is making her cry more. It’s a vicious cycle.

He can’t call Sherlock. There has been a murder, and the detective has left the flat about an hour ago. He is probably still busy at the crime scene. Maybe he is already at the lab with Molly. He’ll be spouting deductions, collecting evidence, taking samples of the floor, and he musn’t be interrupted. Don’t disturb the genius at work.

But looking at his daughter, who is resting against his shoulder now, whimpering and still calling for her papa occasionally, John knows he can’t have Rosie crying on for another hour. He needs to call and face the wrath of Sherlock.

John expects ‘Don’t bother me, John, I’m working’, or ‘What the hell do you want, John?’ Or maybe he won’t even pick up. There is no way, though, that Sherlock will just drop what he is doing and come home. He doesn’t doubt the detective’s love for Rosie, not for a second, but the Work has always come first. John has always known and accepted this.

Sherlock picks up after the third ring, and instead of annoyance, John hears worry in his voice. “John, are you all right? You never call.”

And John scolds himself for thinking Sherlock would be so vicious. The detective has been nothing but kind towards them, reserving his mean side for New Scotland Yard and the criminals they have been dealing with.

“Yeah, we’re fine. Well, not in danger,” John takes a breath, lodging the phone between his shoulder and head so he can rub calming circles on Rosie’s back. “I don’t want to annoy you at work, love. It’s just…”

“PAPA!” Rosie seems to be using all the power left in her to call for him, and Sherlock needs no more explanation.

“Put me on speaker, John.” He asks, voice calm.

“But you’re working, love.” He is arguing against his own self-interest, John knows.

“I am. But Lestrade will have to wait for just a moment, so I can talk to my daughter.” The sound of steps, a door closing, and John smiles at the awesomeness of this man, his heart aching just a bit. “Put me on speaker so I can talk to her.”

John presses the button and holds it out for Rosie.

“Hello, my darling girl.” Sherlock coos at her, and Rosie lifts her head, reaching for the phone with chubby hands.

“Papa.” She whispers.

“Hello, Rosie. Are you still awake this late at night?”

She nods, rubbing at her eyes. “Papa work.” She says, voice tiny.

“Yes, I’m working. Did you have a bath today, with Daddy?”

Another nod that Sherlock can’t see, but probably senses. John can hear movement, suspecting that Sherlock is sitting down.

“Great. Those are always fun, right? And now, you are tired, aren’t you? Do you want to cuddle up in bed with daddy? In our big bed?”

“Yeth.” Rosie seems to be excited by this, the whimpering has stopped completely. “Daddy.”

And John makes his way downstairs, as Sherlock talks on. He almost feels like an intruder in their conversation, their shared moment. He picks up her bottle with fennel tea on the way, still warm, and settles her into their bed, the phone on the cushion next to her. Rosie reaches out to him, so John settles down on top of the duvet, wrapping an arm around her small body.

“Are you in bed, now? Is Daddy cuddling you? That’s the best, isn’t it? Cuddles from Daddy? I love those.” Sherlock’s voice is calm, and deep, and John feels his own frustration melt away. He realises how tired he is from all the rocking and pacing.

“Papa.” Rosie whispers, tears drying on her cheeks, hand resting next to the phone. Her eyes are falling shut, but she forces them open again and again, even as she gets more and more exhausted.

“Lullaby and goodnight. With roses bedight, with lilies o'er spread, is baby's wee bed.” Sherlock starts singing, and John imagines him in some room next to a murder scene, still wearing protective gloves and his coat, taking this moment for their daughter. He told John once how the lullaby had been composed by Brahms, which made it close enough to classical music for Sherlock to appreciate it.

“Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed.” Sherlock sings on, and John turns to switch off the light. By the time Sherlock has finished the song, switching into the German original, Rosie’s breaths have grown more regular. John doesn’t dare to move, so as not to jostle her.

Sherlock’s singing voice is beautiful, and John imagines six-year-old Sherlock getting voice lessons, fully dressed up in his pirate hat. They should buy one of those for Rosie. She would look adorable. Tiny Captain Watson. Those images in mind, John closes his eyes.

“Bright angels beside my darling abide. They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast.” Sherlock sings, finishing [the lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypMW4iPzlmM) a third time, then the call ends, as both Watsons sleep.

* * *

The duvet lifts, and John adjusts his grip around Rosie, turning slightly into the warmth of Sherlock’s body. His phone is half buried under him, and he reaches out to put it aside.

“Solved the case?” He murmurs into the dark.

“Molly is still piecing together body parts,” Sherlock’s hand is cold as he sneaks it under John’s T-shirt and rests it on the doctor’s chest. “She’ll spend the night in the morgue and will text me as soon as she’s done. I’ll have to go when she does.”

John turns his head, and Sherlock doesn’t disappoint, placing a kiss on his lips. He can taste the London night on them, cool and wet, and John nudges his nose against the side of Sherlock’s.

“Thank you for earlier.”

“Nothing to thank me for, John. It’s part of the job description.” Sherlock lifts his weight to his elbow, so they can rest his temple against John’s brow. 

“She only wanted you today. Wouldn’t stop crying.”

“I bet it would have been the same with roles reversed. We all had those nights as children, where sleep didn’t seem to be an option.”

John smiles, moving his hand on his daughter’s side, as she smacks her lips in her sleep, turning a bit. She is so tiny, tucked against his chest, warm and soft. “You still have those, love.” He grins, knowing that what Sherlock just said is true. Toddlers have moods, and it isn’t really John’s fault that she had a bad night. Still, Sherlock saved the situation tonight.

“I won’t be sleeping tonight, either. The Case…” Sherlock shrugs his shoulders apologetically.

John shifts, to kiss him. “No sleeping on cases, I know, love. I’ll drop Rosie up at the nursery, and I’ll be able to pick her up too, so you can focus on the case.”

Sherlock nods, and for a moment they are both quiet, as they listen to the noises Rosie makes in her sleep. And maybe this hasn’t really been a crisis, even though John felt helpless, doubting his capability as a parent. Sherlock had been there for them, and he always will be, John is sure of that. From the beginning of their friendship, the detective had always been interested in John’s wellbeing, even if that had not been immediately visible. The most prominent example – of course- jumping off a rooftop to save John’s life. Then, and in the year after the fall, they both had gotten hurt so many times. Still, they were here now. In good times, and in bad.

John shifts, until they are chest to chest, brow to brow. “Do you remember what you said about your vow?”

“I do.”

“Would you repeat that in front of a marriage registrar?”

Sherlock blinks, and John almost expects one of those staring fits, the detective lost in his mind palace, instead the answer comes immediately, the detective’s voice sure.

“In a heartbeat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you lovely People, we have almost done it :) Thank you so much for all your lovely comments. They keep me going <3


	20. Chapter 20

**XX.**

Mary had made him stop believing in the concept of marriage, with her lies and deceit. From the beginning, keeping her real name from him, until the moment she chose to kill his best friend, John had only been hurt by the person who was supposed to love him.

As he sinks into the mattress next to his new husband, John believes again. There had been no real proposal, only a late-night conversation six months ago, no ring, no practiced speech about love and happiness. And in the days after, they had mainly discussed the reasons why marriage would be practical. The most important being that adopting Rosie is easier for a spouse. And they want that, as soon as possible.

It has, after only four hours, already been the best time of his life.

Their ceremony was small and practical. The only guests present were Sherlock’s family, Mike, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and their daughter, beautiful in her pastel blue dress, hair in a braid. She insisted on sitting on John’s lap as they spoke their vows to each other and to her, vows of adventure and love, of chases and school runs, of bees and a vegetable garden in Sussex. They exchanged wedding bands, silver and plain and John had tears in his eyes as Sherlock took a small box out of his jacket, presenting their daughter with a ring of her own, hanging from a silver chain.

After lunch at Angelo’s with all of their guests, the Watson-Holmes family had taken off to the lake district, where they would spend their honeymoon.

John is still in a daze as he tries to recollect everything that has happened, from Sherlock’s dad Andrew calling him son, to Mrs. Hudson bursting into tears as they kissed for the first time as husbands. Lestrade had made a short speech in his duty as Sherlock’s best man.

“I knew it. Let’s drink your wonderful family, to the brain and the heart, Sherlock and John.”

Mike, John’s best man, had been just as brief, his words improvised, but hitting the nail on the head. “I knew it, and I got them there. So, let’s drink to me too. Kidding, lads. We are all so happy for you, and we wish you all the best.”

No pomp needed, no champagne, but perfect for them, and John can’t stop grinning, not even after an almost three-hour drive with a complaining toddler on the back seat.

“So, this is our wedding night, then.” Sherlock is standing in the bathroom doorway, his shirt hanging open to reveal a broad chest and small, pink nipples. John can never get enough of the sight of his partner - husband - in any state of undress, and the doctor grins, knowing he must have at least three chins with the way he is tilting his head to get the best view of his gorgeous man.

“It is, darling.” He reaches out for Sherlock, who slowly sheds his shirt as he walks towards him. A moment later, a yawn ruins the mood a bit. “Doesn’t need to mean anything, though. We’re on a honeymoon with our child, so we can ignore all those traditions.”

Sherlock blushes, looking down at his hands, then at John. “You wouldn’t mind? I must admit, I didn’t sleep too well last night, and the drive here, well…”

“Come here, old man, and we’ll cuddle a bit.” John chuckles. “But get your pretty bum out of those trousers, alright, so I can fondle you a bit., yeah?”

He watches his husband undress, finding a way to shrug out of his own clothes without getting up from the bed. Their wedding suits end up as a heap on the floor, neither of them caring at the moment, as they cuddle up under the duvet.

“Fondle? You wished for more, I’m sure.” John is sure Sherlock wants to sound pouty, but he yawns instead, which is the most adorable thing John has ever seen. He pulls the detective against his chest, left hand finding those curls in an almost instinctual movement.

When he speaks, it is against Sherlock’s neck. “I’m an old man, too, you know. I’m sure most guys our age are lucky to get a leg over once a week.”

“Well, our rate is a bit higher than that.” 

“See? We’re already luckier than most. Doesn’t matter what we do tonight.” John kisses the pale forehead, rubbing his nose against the hairline. He spotted a silver hair there two weeks ago, but didn’t tell Sherlock. Instead, he secretly plucked it out, not wanting a grumpy fiancé shortly before the wedding. The detective is a vain man, always immaculate with his looks. Those tight shirts, that dramatic coat. John is sure that getting older is going to be a problem, one he is happy to help with. They’re husbands, now, after all, and that deal includes the rest of their lives, or so John has been told.

“Can you believe that we’re married?” He asks, with a smile. When an answer doesn’t come, John looks down to find his new husband fast asleep.

“We’re married, you and me. That’s the best deal you can get, you know, to marry your best friend.” John puts his thoughts into words, not caring that no one hears them. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes, so much.”

And there are so many reasons he does.

The man in his arms is beautiful, no silver hair can change that. His lean body carried by those long legs, not to mention than round, delicious arse, the strong arms and broad chest. Sherlock Holmes is what people make up during lonely nights. John is lucky enough to only have to open his eyes to see the real thing, to have those cupid bow lips open to call him ‘Jawn’ lazily, before he gets the first kiss of the day. And he never minds the morning breath either, when he has those eyes blink up at him, more silver in the mornings, a stark contrast to the raven hair.

And he is patient with those he loves. At work, when the yard or a client is included, Sherlock Holmes has not a second to spare for incompetence. He gets annoyed, yells, and throws around insults like confetti at a children’s birthday party, striking everyone who doesn’t leave the room on time. And he is impatient with himself, if his brain doesn’t catch up on time, if he misses a clue.

But with Rosie, Sherlock is wonderful. He doesn’t get tired of explaining the smallest things to her, of playing her favourite songs on his violin for the dozenth time. He gets up when she cries at night, takes her to the park to feed the ducks, which he finds utterly dull, but she loves. Sherlock is patient with John too, with his broken doctor.

In the beginning, John thought he might be the one teaching Sherlock a few things, theirs being the detective’s first relationship, but instead, John had been the one to struggle. And Sherlock had been so patient with him until he figured himself out. He’s not done with that, either. Yes, they now have two prostates to focus on, which adds a completely new dimension to their sex life, but John has not yet penetrated Sherlock. They haven’t even tried it again, happy with what they share. Topping, for John, is not something he just wants to cross of the list anymore. He does want it though, and the want is growing stronger by the day. 

He recalls some of the highlights of their sexual voyage of discovery:

\- John, on his knees in front of the armchair, a mouth full of lovely cock, looking up into a lust-dazed face that becomes a grimace as Sherlock’s orgasm hits him, caused by John’s fingers curling inside the detective’s body -

\- Sherlock pounding into him on their bed, making John moan, just minutes after the doctor slipped Sherlock’s own little friend inside -

\- John getting his cock sucked into tight, wet heat, as he is busy discovering what Sherlock’s most intimate part tastes and feels like -

With each one of these experiences, and many more, John has felt the urge to open up that tight pink hole, slip in his cock, and slowly thrust into Sherlock’s body like he had fantasised about for years before they started dating. That need, that want, he thinks, is a good sign.

Soon, maybe, they can try. 

And if they fail, they’ll try again. Sherlock is understanding, more than anyone would ever give him credit for.

And of course, Sherlock is brilliant, his brain performing miracles on a daily basis. He’s also clumsy sometimes, funny all the time, ridiculously loving, and protective of those he loves. He’s so much more than that, and John just got to marry him, call him his husband.

He raises his hand to look at his ring. It has not been too long since he wore a different wedding band, a gold one. It’s somewhere, deep down in his bedside drawer, ever since he had taken it off that first night after moving back to Baker Street. Maybe he should find a more permanent spot for it, and for Mary’s too, because this silver band is all that matters now.

John holds Sherlock’s hand in his as he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four more to go :P


	21. *explicit*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just felt like posting today :D

**XXI.**

John becomes aware of soft touches to his chest, hands roaming over his skin. He is barely awake, and the only thing he knows is that he is lying on his back in a bed that is not his own, with this man, his husband, who doesn’t seem very tired anymore. He also knows that he doesn’t want Sherlock to stop whatever he is doing.

“Can I?” Sherlock whispers against his ear, the warm breath sending shivers down John’s spine.

“Yes.” John doesn’t know what he is agreeing to, but Sherlock can do anything to him, here in this bed. And maybe, Sherlock is hinting at something in particular with his expression, or a gesture, but John won’t open his eyes at the slight chance of this being a wonderful dream.

Sherlock’s hands skim over his belly, to rest on his hips, teeth nipping at his neck, then further down, finding the places on John’s body where he knows the doctor is most sensitive. He knows which buttons to push, by now, to get John’s blood boiling.

And it is boiling. John is slowly gliding from a state of sleep into one of bliss, that mouth, those hands pure magic, Sherlock Holmes the most powerful wizard of all. John smiles at the metaphor that his sleep muddled brain has just come up with, rubbing at his eyes. One of the small lamps is switched on, the dim light revealing an old but well-kept hotel room.

“Well, well, someone is waking up.” Sherlock is grinning up at him, cheeks flushed pink, and isn’t that a wonderful thing to see first thing after opening his eyes. The detective is obviously not referring to John as a whole, but rather a not so small part of him, and John grins back.

“Yeah, he’s sensing you’re near.” He mumbles, lids dropping close again, as Sherlock bites his hip playfully, before closing his fingers around the base of John’s filling cock. His grip is loose, but his fingers are wonderfully warm, the tip of his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of John’s scrotum, causing a moan to form in the doctor’s throat. He bites it back, when a thought crosses his mind.

“Rosie?” He asks. Their daughter has a pattern of waking up once during the night, and she is now big enough to get out of her bed and open doors, something that they can cope with in Baker Street, where they have a baby gate on the stairs, but here, where she is just next door, they might be in for a surprise.

“She woke up almost an hour ago, and I got her back to sleep.” Sherlock kisses the spot he has just bitten, lips smearing over the reddened skin, soothing the slight pain. from the beginning of their relationship, sex has been something to be organised around a toddler, her sleeping patterns, and her time at the nursery. And of course, there are Wednesdays. So, it doesn’t matter, really, that this is something they talk about, even on their wedding night.

“Papa is prepared, I see.” John grins, lifting up to his elbows to watch his husband as he lazily strokes him, teeth and tongue now teasing his inner thighs, one, then the other.

“More than you know.” Sherlock murmurs, and John doesn’t have the time to think about what that might mean, as a hot mouth closes over the tip of his cock, tongue teasing at the frenulum. Groaning, John tilts his head back and closes his eyes, as Sherlock bobs his head, the slurping sounds doing just as much for John as the tight heat does. Needing something to hold on to, he grabs the sheets tightly.

“Fuck, Sher…, Oh Jesus bloody…,” The combination of that clever tongue on his crown, and the tight fist closed around his base, John has to bite back loud moans, reducing himself to a whisper. “Can you…?”

There is no answer, just the cap of the lube bottle clicking open, then closed. “God, you genius.” He groans, reaching out to touch his husband’s hair, weaving his fingers through the beloved curls. Letting go of his shaft, Sherlock lifts John’s leg over his shoulder instead, and John feels the cold lube against his ring muscle, which twitches at the sensation.

“Oi, just because we’re married now, doesn’t mean you can skip warming it up a bit.” John teases, thumb grazing over Sherlock’s cheekbone, along his hairline. He gets another sheepish smile, before a pink tongue flicks against his frenulum, distracting him, which John happily accepts.

His body gives way to Sherlock’s fingers much easier now, Sherlock lazily sucking his cock, and John could just come from this, has before. But then, it is still their wedding night, and John would very much like to get shagged into the mattress, thank you very much. He opens his legs wider, to give the detective better access.

“Fuck,” He moans, face turned into the pillow, as not to wake up the entire hotel, as two fingers pump in and out of him, scissoring him open. “Sher… fuck. Stop, you need to… I’m so close already.”

Sherlock pulls his mouth off, but continues to stretch him, hot lips now on John’s thighs, as John’s straining cock rests on his belly, precum and Sherlock’s spit now collecting in the dip of his belly button.

“You are beautiful,” Sherlock trails kisses down John’s thigh to one of his knees, where they fall open. “Husband.” A third finger joins the two already working their way into John’s body, making the doctor squirm and strain his back off the mattress. “I was attracted to you from the moment I met you at the lab. That military stance, those eyes.”

Sherlock moves up, his weight on one elbow just next to John’s head. They use the position to their advantage and kiss, mouths desperate and wet.

“Did you know that they look almost brown from a distance, only to reveal the darkest, bluest of blues? Intriguing, how you are never what you seem, John Watson.”

“Watson-Holmes,” John correct, not knowing what else to say. He has never been good at dealing with praise, when it is directed at his body. His work, yes, his writing, maybe, but his body has always just been okay in his mind. He knew he wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t exotic either, like Sherlock was. He was just John, as common as his name. And then, Sherlock Holmes, all dark curls and cheekbones, found beauty in him. How could he not blush?

“Yes, Watson-Holmes.” Sherlock smiles, knowing exactly what John is doing. “And then you got that new haircut a year ago, and by god, John, it drives me wild.” As if to prove that, Sherlock’s cock stabs against his belly, brushing against John’s own length. And John wants him to reach into his hair and pull it, wants to feel the tingle on his scalp. Sherlock doesn’t disappoint, reaching out the hand that is not currently busy elsewhere, to tug at the silver stands, framing his head with his arm.

Lifting his head for a kiss, John wraps all his extremities around the beloved body on top of his, pulling him down on him. “Sherlock,” John’s voice breaks, as the fingers inside in curl up, brushing against his prostate, and his cock twitches at the sensation, now trapped between them and against Sherlock’s own member. They kiss, John’s head straining back, his lips swollen red, as Sherlock licks into his mouth, teasing John’s tongue. Grinding against each other, Sherlock’s arm gets in the way, and he starts slowly pulling his fingers out, leaving John empty and buzzing with the excitement of what is to come.

John could come like this, fucking up against Sherlock’s cock, warm and hard and wet with precum, sharing their breath as their mouths devour each other. He doesn’t want to. He wants Sherlock inside him, now.

“Sherlock,” He begs, before diving into their kiss again. “Please.”

“On your front, for me.” Sherlock is just as out of breath as John, voice rough with arousal, and all that John is capable of is a nod.

They rearrange themselves, Sherlock tugging a pillow under John’s hips as the doctor gets comfortable, his legs framing John’s.

In a tease, Sherlock drags his erection down over the cleft of John’s arse, the sensitive rim twitching, as the crown pushes against it lightly. They both moan, so close to what they want, and John feels his husband move his arm as the detective grabs at his erection, tugging at it twice, before he grabs at the base and repeats the action, up and down, wetting the tender skin between John’s buttocks, dipping into his hole just so.

It is sweet torture for both, their moans becoming indistinguishable; John grinding his hips against the mattress and into the cushion, the soft fabric teasing him further. He is so wet, and open, and he wants to yell at Sherlock to finally get on with it. Instead, he takes what he gets, every touch a new spark to the fire that is making love to Sherlock Holmes. 

Ever since their first time, John has been desperate to feel Sherlock inside him, to have that pretty pink cock pressed into his body and the crown dragging over that wonderful spot that makes stars dance behind his eyes. Needy, Sherlock called him once, with a teasing grin, and god, was he right. John is needy for it in general, and especially now, when what he wants is so close to happening. 

“Ready?” Sherlock whispers, his nose brushing over John’s ear, as he lowers his weight from his hands to his elbows.

“Oh god, yes.” John moans, and is rewarded with the pressure of Sherlock pushing into him. Burrowing his face into the pillow, John takes it, inch by inch, until they are flush against each other. There is not much time to adjust as Sherlock finds a slow but insistent rhythm, forehead lowering to rest between against John’s neck and back.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock’s arms frame John’s shoulders, and the doctor reaches out to intertwine their fingers, needing something to hold on to. His cock is twitching, so sensitive already.

“You feel so good. No, good is not adequate.” A kiss is pressed to his spine. “You are perfect. So tight for me. I want to …” He interrupts himself with a curse, hips delivering three quick, sharp thrusts, before he slows himself down.

“John?”

“Hmm?” John turns his head as much as he can, but is unable to really look at his husband, sensing there is something important he wants to say. It isn’t uncommon for Sherlock to talk during sex a lot, luckily mostly about the sex, his hormone-flooded brain not filtering what leaves his mouth, but this time, by the way Sherlock sounds, John is sure it is deliberate.

Sherlock leans down to kiss the corner of his mouth, brushing his nose against his temple.

“Would you be upset if I wasn’t fully honest with you, on our first day of marriage?”


	22. *explicit*

**XXII.**

John is too dazed to really comprehend what Sherlock wants to tell him, or what he might have lied about, but before he can wrack his brain in search of an answer, or begin to worry, Sherlock continues talking, working him with shallow trusts.

“I wasn’t tired when we came here. I lied.” Sherlock lifts John’s hand to kiss the inside of his wrist. “Not because I didn’t want sex…” He makes a frustrated sound, having to concentrate on his words as they continue move against each other, and John furrows his brow. He had been convinced of Sherlock’s need for sleep, had held him as he drifted off. Why would there be a need to act?

“I wanted sex, to consummate our marriage. But there was something I needed to do first.” He doesn’t say more, his hips falling back into a fast rhythm, pressing John into the mattress, making the doctor forget all about his explanation, which has barely answered any questions, even raised more. The head of Sherlock’s cock stabs at his prostate repeatedly, the angle perfect for both of them.

“What I want to say, John,” Sherlock moans. “is that you can have me, if you want. I opened myself earlier.”

They both still, as John tries to cope with the mental images that immediately flood his brain. Sherlock, bracing his hands against the tiles as he reaches behind himself, that pink hole opening up to long fingers. Or maybe he used a toy to stretch himself, riding it in the darkness, forced to remain completely quiet. And then another thought: tight heat stretching around John’s cock, as he fucks into it, seeking release. He wants that. He wants Sherlock like that, around him and in his arms. He has felt ready for it for some time now, and why not try now, when he is already so aroused, his brain not leaving space for any thought except Sherlock and their shared lust.

“We don’t have to. We can just continue…” Sherlock mistakes his silence for reluctance, maybe worse, and tries to take back his offer. John turns as much as he can with the weight of his husband on him, to press a kiss to those beloved lips, hoping to convey how much he wants him, loves him, needs him.

“I think it’s easiest if you ride me, Sher.” His voice is heavy with lust and conviction as he looks up at Sherlock, his beautiful, clever husband, curls sticking to his sweat-damp forehead, eyes dark with arousal.

For a moment, neither of them moves, or breathes, then Sherlock blinks twice.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I love you.”

“I love you, John.” They kiss, as Sherlock pulls out, and they both hiss, too aroused to want to lose the sensation of their bodies being connected. It takes John a moment, to turn around and sit up a bit, a pillow propping up his back. His brain is buzzing with what is about to happen, what they are about to share.

Sherlock’s hand is cool with lube as he closes it around John’s cock, kissing him as he pulls at the over-sensitised flesh. John is hard, so hard for his husband, and Sherlock is so very eager, mouth restless on John’s.

“Darling, let me…” John reaches for the lube. He knows that Sherlock knows, the doctor just wants to be sure and Sherlock throws one leg over him. His arms find their way around the detective’s body and slips a careful finger inside the waiting body. Sherlock is wet with lube, and so warm, John moans at the contact. 

At first, he thought it might be good to just get it over quickly, to switch positions and just continue the fucking, hoping his brain wouldn’t catch up. And that was probably what Sherlock thought, when he sneaked into the bathroom to prepare himself.

Sherlock deserves more.

The ring muscle gives way to two more fingers easily, as John kisses his love, nips at the jaw and neck, until Sherlock is all but riding the digits, pressing his hips down and pulling them up again. He’s so beautiful, in his lust, every emotion openly expressed on his face and John moans that against his shoulder.

Resting his head against the spot he just kissed, John looks down at where their cocks are brushing together with their movements, Sherlock’s hands now grasping at the headboard. They could just end it like that, come against their bellies and it would be wonderful, fulfilling.

They want more, and John isn’t going to stop before they even tried.

It doesn’t take words, just a look into Sherlock’s eyes, and they both know, whirling into action. John pulls his fingers back, cleaning them against the duvet, as Sherlock grabs at the base of John’s cock. They are so close, and John’s mind, as sure as he is about wanting this, starts throwing doubts.

“What if I can’t do it?” He asks, brows furrowed, and Sherlock stops, holds himself still.

“Then I’ll love you just the same.” And John grins at his ridiculous man, the thought of being incapable of doing this drowned out by the love in the detective’s gaze. John is so loved, and he sometimes can’t believe it.

“Drama queen,” He teases, and a smirk crosses Sherlock’s face. “Get on with it then. Make love to me.”

Sherlock guides him in.

His body opens up.

And John slides in as Sherlock bears down.

The world, just for the fragment of a second, turns without them.

John fixes his gaze on Sherlock’s face, taking in every twitch of his mouth, the way he presses his eyes shut and tilts his head back. There is no room for someone else. He’s Sherlock’s in every way, and John reaches up to rest his hands on the detective’s chest. The heart under his palm beats, strong and quick, and grounds John to the here and now. John is thankful for Sherlock tricking him a bit, allowing John to reverse their positions, not giving space for worry or pressure. 

He is enveloped in Sherlock’s body, warm and tight, and he feels that pulse here, too, feels what gives life to the most amazing human being to have ever come into John’s world.

“He’s my heartbeat,” John thinks. “He makes me feel alive.”

They still, Sherlock’s bottom resting on John’s hips.

They wait.

He thinks about the panic he had seven months ago, remembers his body tensing and shuddering, as he felt the need to pull away and retreat inside himself, shut Sherlock out. He remembers the pressure he put on himself the second time they tried, and how he failed, arousal snuffed out in a heartbeat. Sherlock thinks about it, too, John can see it in his expression, in the lines on his forehead that disturb his otherwise aroused face.

John closes his eyes for a moment, taking inventory of his body, in an attempt to figure out whether there is a storm simmering within him, about to break loose to shake him, drown him.

The panic doesn’t come.

Instead, John is filled with love and appreciation for this man who has been so good to him, who feels so good around him now, his cock twitching as it is lodged within the detective’s body fully for the first time. And it doesn’t matter that this is a key point in their relationship, that they have worked hard to get here. The fear, the guilt, all of that doesn’t matter either.

They just give in to what their bodies want, what their souls need.

“I’m okay.” John reaches up to brush his knuckles over Sherlock’s cheek, and silverbluegreen eyes blink open. A pang of guilt. He has made Sherlock wait for so long, has made them both wait. “Are you?”

The detective nods and turns his cheek into the palm of John’s hand, kissing the wrist. John can sense the pain, knowing what it must feel like, Still, when Sherlock speaks, his voice is confident. “I’m okay.” He whispers, and the doctor pulls his knees up to give them some leverage, as Sherlock lifts up and sinks down for the first time.

They moan in unison, eyes remaining fixed on each other, as they roll their hips, finding a rhythm that is new and still familiar.

He is inside Sherlock, fucking up into him, and it is pure bliss. For the first time with any partner, John can completely relate to the sensations that Sherlock is experiencing. There is no guessing about what might feel good, or how the body above him functions, because John has had the pleasure of being in his position before, just minutes ago. He can anticipate what Sherlock needs, can tilt his hips in just the right way to stimulate the spots inside him to make the detective’s body sing with pleasure. And still Sherlock is in control of the speed and intensity of their love making, as he rides him, back resting against John’s propped-up legs.

What a lucky man he is, John thinks, to have this beautiful man bouncing in his lap, lifting himself up and sinking down, soft moans escaping from kiss-swollen lips. He looks blissful as he moves, his graceful body making it seem like a dance, perfectly choreographed for both his pleasure and John’s, and John gives in to his lead, shifting and thrusting up just as Sherlock asks him to do, without a word.

Their dance will end soon, the music slowly swelling up to its peak, their heartbeats thundering in their chests.

“Won’t be long.” John moans, as the pleasure of being surrounded by Sherlock, having him clench and unclench around him, carries him towards the edge quickly. It has only been a few minutes since John’s cock slid into Sherlock Holmes for the first time since they tried and failed months ago, but John is too overwhelmed, too sensitised, to hold himself back.

Sherlock leans down a bit, hands dragging over John’s chest to rest on his shoulders, and John whispers love confessions against his husband’s lips, only to lick them away as they kiss.

“You’re perfect, darling.”

“Love you so much.”

“God, you feel so good.”

“Wanted this for so long.”

“I need to come, love. Are you close?”

And Sherlock is. He wraps long fingers around his own cock, pulling it in an almost brutal rhythm, keeping his hips still to allow John to tilt his hips and thrust up, up, up, into tight heat, into the man he loves, who clenches around him with a loud ‘AH’.

John lets go, stars dancing behind his eyes.

And it is more than an orgasm, it is a relief, tons of weight lifted off his chest, and John feels light, capable of flying. It’s a victory. A victory over his mind, over his body, a victory he shares with the man he loves, and that makes his toes curl and his back arch off the mattress as he pulses within him, buried to the hilt inside his marvellous heat.

John’s scream of victory is muffled by a plump mouth, the pressure almost painful as they desperately seek the other’s lips, Sherlock adjusting his position to fully lay down on him, keep him grounded. John lifts his arms to pull him close. Between them, sweat and ejaculate mix, sticking them together, but for now, neither of them has the mind to care, as they slowly come down. Their racing hearts calm, and John can feel them both as they slow with their breathing.

“John.” He hears Sherlock speak, whisper into his ear, but can’t really make sense as his brain is flooded with serotonin and oxytocin, making clear thoughts impossible.

Sweet nothings. Sweet everythings.

John presses his nose against the side of Sherlock’s face, taking in the smell of sweat and sex and man, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And if there are tears prickling in his eyes, John doesn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I struggled with most. I didn't want John topping to somehow be more important than him bottoming, because I think in this Story, John discovered so many new things about himself and his sexuality. That shouldn't just be brushed aside. On the other Hand, finally getting rid of all those negative emotions and letting go, being free to make love to his Sherlock, that is so very Special.   
> I hope I achieved some compromise between the two.  
> Thank you, your comments motivate me every day, to continue writing about those idiots <3


	23. *explicit*

**XXIII.**

Sherlock trails his fingers up and down John’s arms and has the doctor almost purring with contentment, as he lays half on top of his husband.

Tonight was not his best performance, he knows. In the past, with former lovers, and in his encounters with Sherlock, he has always prided himself with taking good care of his partner. Prying Sherlock open slowly, teasing him until he begs, even when they just left it at fingers, or a toy, had been one of his favourite parts of their sexual experience together. This time, Sherlock had prepared himself, alone, in the loo and John understands the reason behind that. Preparation takes time, and knowing where things were going, that might have allowed John’s brain to produce another panic. Leaving him not much time to think, John just followed Sherlock’s lead, and god, he feels good having accomplished it, finally. 

Yes, they will need to learn, to improve. John wants to get back to the great lover he know he can be. He wants to hold out longer, wants to drive Sherlock insane thrust by thrust. The thought about this tight hole opening up to take him in, swallowing him down as Sherlock bares his shoulders against the mattress, bum in the air, exposed, makes his cock stir. He is far from ready for round two, now, but maybe he could wake Sherlock up early and… John’s thoughts drift off.

He is happy. He got fucked, and did some fucking himself, and his body is buzzing with content. Closing his eyes, John breathes kisses against Sherlock’s neck. His husbands shifts, wrapping an arm around John’s chest.

“Does this mean you won’t need therapy anymore?” John knows this is his way of asking if John is okay, now that they have achieved penetrative sex, without being too direct. And John is happy to answer, feeling like talking to Sherlock about it will help him order his own thoughts.

“I think I’ll still do therapy, Sher. I know we’re doing good – great actually- and my sessions with Ella have been a big part of that. I want to continue working on myself, so I can be the best version of myself, for you and Rosie. Stop grinning,” He swats at Sherlock’s arm. “I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. I need the therapy, I think.”

“You are not a broken man, John, you don’t need to be fixed.”

John sits up, so he can fully look at his husband. They cleaned up and dressed in their pyjamas as soon as their hearts stopped racing, the risk of having a little guest in their bed being too great, so there is a barrier between them as John straddles Sherlock’s hips.

“I know that now, love. But for years, I thought I was.”

Reaching up, Sherlock cups his neck, thumb brushing over John’s jawbone. There is a tenderness in his eyes, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s good to see you happy. And I am sure it does you good to have someone to complain about me.”

“That’s not what…” John wants to counter, but Sherlock is smirking, so he leans down and kisses him instead. “Yeah, you’re right, therapy is going to be the only thing that will help me survive…” He calculates in his head. “About forty years of being married to you.”

They chuckle, and John presses a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s thumb. “I think I’ll enjoy that time very much. I did get the better deal out of the two of us, after all.” Sherlock lifts up to his elbows, pursing his lips, and John follows his silent demand.

“Not sure we’ll ever agree on that, darling.”

“It’s good to have something to fight about, keeps us on our toes.”

“For the next forty years.”

“Exactly.”

“And we will have to fight about positions, too. I did enjoy being penetrated immensely, and I will have to insist on it in future, on you shagging me into the mattress, as they say. Maybe I should start a spreadsheet, so we can keep up with whose turn it is.”

Swatting at his arm, John can’t stop a giggle. “Don’t you think we can just figure that out as we go? Just see what we’re in the mood for?” He is not sure that, just because he managed to penetrate Sherlock tonight, there will never be any trouble with it. There might be bad nights, bad days.

“I am a scientist, John. I must collect my data.” Sherlock says teasingly, and John brushes his nose against the pale inside of Sherlock’s wrist.

“All right, then. Have your spreadsheet. Just make sure Rosie never finds it.”

Then, when he feels the cool of Sherlock’s wedding band against his lips, having kissed up to the palm, a thought occurs to him. It is a complete change of topic, but he needs to get it out. “I still have the rings from Mary and me.”

Sherlock’s smile shrivels into a frown. “I know.” He apparently doesn’t want to talk about Mary, and neither does John, but he has an idea he wants to share. “I found yours in your bedside drawer.”

“Snoop.” The doctor smirks, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own. “I thought maybe I could get them melted into a necklace for Rosie. Mary didn’t have much personal stuff like photos, and that way she could have something that belonged to her mother.”

John is enfolded into a tight hug, face smushed against Sherlock’s chest, the detective’s enthusiasm making him chuckle.

“That is a beautiful idea, John, to make your rings into a piece of jewelry which is just as meaningful.”

The detective takes a deep breath, and John, unable to see him, suspects tears in his eyes. They are still so very emotional, the excitement of the day taking its toll on them. John doesn’t expect the love confession Sherlock then whispers into his ear.

“You are the kindest and bravest man have I ever met. And I know I have told you that, and you know how much I hate repeating myself, but you are. And you proved that to me with everything you did for our relationship. I know you hate talking about yourself, but you did it. For us, for me. You fought for us, always the soldier. What I forgot to add, at your other wedding.” He makes a dismissive gesture. “Is that you are also beautiful, and sexy, and less of an idiot than most.” Sherlock presses his lips to the top of John’s head as they hold each other even more tightly. “Well, Mary would have shot me right there, if I had. Pregnant assassins are unpredictable.”

Resting his head on Sherlock’s chest, John bites his lip, heart warmed by the words Sherlock has shared with him. He ignores the joke about Mary, not wanting her to be a topic on their wedding night anymore. He wants to say something back, to find a way to express what he is feeling, but his brain is still muddled.

“I think,” John’s voice is rough with emotion. “I think, I’ll keep you.”

“You keep me -right-, John Watson.” Sherlock weaves his hands through John’s hair. “You always have, from the first day.”

“And you keep me happy, so very happy.” John kisses him, their mouths moving against each other slowly, tenderly. As they kiss, their bodies shift, until John is on his side, half his body covering Sherlock’s. Their legs entangle, and Sherlock combs his fingers through John’s hair.

They kiss until their bodies get tired, and they close their eyes, ready to fall asleep. The sound of a door opening, then soft footsteps on the carpet, signal the arrival of Rosie. John helps her climb onto the bed.

“Daddy.” Rosie is rubbing at her eyes, her plush kitty tightly pressed to her chest She looks a little confused at the unfamiliar room, and John strokes her hair.

“Do you want to sleep with Daddy and Papa?” He asks, and she nods, crawling to rest in the tight space between them. Sherlock lifts the duvet, dropping it again when she is comfortable. John looks over at his husband to find him gazing down at Rosie. There is so much love between the two of them. And how lucky they are to have found each other, to have become a family, when all they were was a genius detective with an weakness for cocaine, deeply traumatised by the fate of his psychopathic sister, and a broken doctor struggling with PTSD and raising his daughter on his own.

And now, this family allows them to heal further. One day, maybe at the age of ninety-three, all the pieces will be fused together completely, and they won’t be broken anymore. Until then, all they can do is live their lives, be part of the adventure that is Sherlock, John and Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes. John can’t wait for that life to begin.

He switches off the light and wraps an arm around his daughter, who is already half asleep again, one arm flung over her head and the other clutching her kitty. She is adorable, and so small between them, and John vows to himself to always protect her, protect their family, as a soldier and a doctor, a husband and a father.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That just leaves the epilogue. ... how did that happen?


	24. Epliogue

**XXIV**

He watches her smile as she moves over the dance floor, her feet sure of every step as she turns and twirls, and John smiles too. It doesn’t matter that she won’t notice, that her smile is for someone else.

He pulls his handkerchief from his trouser pocket to dab at wet eyes, and she dances, her curls bouncing. She is graceful and beautiful, and John wants to beg her to stop growing up and come back home, where she can always be his little girl. But then, neither of them has been to Baker Street in ages, not since she went off to Oxford five years ago. And John misses the flat, misses the buzzing of the city that never sleeps.

As the song ends, the room erupts into applause. She smiles again and bows, and he sees her reaching for her necklace. She never takes it off, and John knows it is a token of comfort to her to play with the small ring she got twenty-six years ago, and the heart that had been fused together out of the old wedding bands. And John wants to hug her, tell her how beautiful she is, how happy he is for her. Instead, he reaches out his hand, and long fingers find his own, squeeze them.

“Okay?” Sherlock’s voice is so quiet, only John can hear him.

He nods, turning to his husband. “Our little girl is married.” John whispers.

“She’s not so little anymore, John. She is of average height for a twenty-first century British woman .”

“Not what I meant.” John grins and lifts Sherlock’s hand to his mouth to kiss it.

“Dad?” Rosie steps towards him. “I’d like to dance with you next.”

There is no way he can say no to the bride, and so John lets himself be pulled towards the dance floor, taking her hand and wrapping the other arm around her middle. His daughter is just a bit taller than him in her high-heeled shoes, and he looks into her lovely face. She got lucky, inheriting most of her facial features from her mother, especially the smile, but he recognizes his own eyes in hers, the dark blue a stark contrast to her light blonde hair. When she moves, it’s all Sherlock, graceful in everything she does, confident in the way she acts and talks. 

Nature and nurture.

She is going to go far in life, John knows. She had studied medicine, and has been working as a pathologist at Bart’s for four months now. She’s so much like Sherlock in her fascination with death, having taken part in many experiments much earlier than John might have liked. Sherlock often insists, though, that the need to help others with her work is something John instilled in her.

She’s like Mary in the way she looks, like John and Sherlock in the way she sees the world, but she is also her own person, vibrant and open, easily fascinated by small things and able to focus completely on her work, which she takes very seriously. And John is not sure if anyone deserves to be married to their daughter, but that is just the protective father in him. Tim is a good man, and John trusts Rosie’s judgement. She is all grown up now, and knows what she is doing.

They sway together in a waltz, and John is proud to say that he doesn’t step on her toes even once as they move, everyone watching.

“You look so happy, sweetheart.” She smiles at him, as if to prove he is right. 

“I am, Dad. Can’t believe I’m actually married. The whole day has been a bit of a blur.”

“Weddings always are. And then you wake up, and you’ve been married for over two decades and your baby is all grown up.”

Rosie squeezes his hand, sensing how sentimental he is being tonight. “Oh dad. You’re old, just accept it.” She winks, and they burst into a giggle. This, she also inherited from John.

“Your Papa can’t wait to dance with you. That’s the only thing he had to abstain from in our marriage, dancing.”

“I know. I just thought I’d dance with you first, tease him a little.” Rosie grins, looking over John’s shoulder to where Sherlock is watching, tall and beautiful as he has always been, grey curls giving him an almost aristocratic look, his body swaying with the music, eager to move.

And John knows this man will always be there, observing and waiting, and John loves him so much, a deep love that has long gone beyond rose-tinted glasses and the excitement of a new relationship, a love that fulfils him and makes him whole. They have caught criminals together, raised their daughter against all odds, fought tooth and nail after John’s cancer diagnosis three years ago, and accepted the fact that Sherlock’s arthritis will soon silence the violin forever. In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, just as they vowed to each other so long ago.

And that vow has now has been made between their daughter and her new husband, and John is so proud of her, of their family.

He steps aside as Rosie shares the next dance with her Papa, and John needs to sit down for a moment as they twirl over the dance floor, Rosie in her plain cream-coloured dress and Sherlock in a three-piece suit, elegant as always.

Later, when the music has switched from classical to pop, and they are sitting in a quiet corner sharing another piece of the wedding cake that Sherlock has pilfered, the former detective and now-beekeeper looks over at Rosie.

“Would it be A Bit Not Good to deduce our daughter’s pregnancy to her?”

John’s eyes widen as he looks back and forth between Rosie and his husband. “She’s… pregnant?” He whispers, hoping no one can hear.

“Yes. She has gained two pounds, possibly three, when most brides try to lose weight before…”

John kisses him urgently.

“Shut up. I don’t care how you know it. We’re going to be grandparents!”

“Oh god, yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darlings, this is it. The last chapter!  
> This Story, and you guys liking it so much, makes me really proud and motivates me more than you know. I could have never imagined such a positive response and such kind words from you and I am sooo thankful.
> 
> Sherlock's pov will me given (in a few months) in 'SHERLOCK HOLMES AND  
> THE ADVENTURE OF THE LOVED DETECTIVE'
> 
> Lots of love
> 
> vany aka strange_johnlock

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only a little bit sorry for the cliffhanger
> 
> I made a Ko-fi a while ago. I never promoted it, but now my laptop is about to die and I can't afford a new one right now. If you could support me, even a little bit, that. Would help me immensely. I appreciate all of you very much, Ko-fi or no, and your kind words mean the world.  
> https://ko-fi.com/strange_johnlock


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